


Getting to Know You

by oooknuk



Series: Getting to Know You [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:52:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10758051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: AU. What if Methos killed Stephen Keane? Takes the reader from 'Forgive us our trespasses' to just after 'Armageddon'.





	Getting to Know You

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Duncan Character Abuse! Sentiment, Angst and Methos torment. The occasional naughty word, some rather dull sex, and quotes without permission from Khalil Gibran's "The Prophet".
> 
> Many thanks to MacGeorge for helping me revise this

MacLeod had been in a lousy mood for much of the past month, and the confrontation the night before had disturbed him to the point of being unable to sleep for the nightmares. But as he stalked towards the two figures, one lying prone on the gravel, the other poised to swing the huge sword that seemed so out of place in his hands, the lowering guilt and depression just seemed to burn away under the pure, incandescent rage which swept through him.

"You do it and I'm next!" he shouted.

Methos didn't budge a millimetre."I'm trying to save your head." He raised his sword again.

"I don't need your help! You kill him, I swear, Methos, you face me."

Methos kept his sword where it was but turned his head to look at Mac. "Then so be it," he said softly, and Mac cried out in anger and sorrow as the broadsword sliced through the neck of Stephen Keane.

As Methos knelt on the ground, panting and still grimacing from the random discharges of electricity, Mac wondered at how readily the world's longest survivor put himself in the most vulnerable position possible for an Immortal. This was the third time Methos had killed while MacLeod was close at hand – three times when his own Quickening was there for the taking. Ridiculous, considering what they both were. Having refused to take Methos' head the day he met him, it was as if Methos thought MacLeod had become incapable of killing him.

 _Well, we'll see about that_ , Mac thought grimly, trying to summon up the necessary rage and self-righteousness to carry out his threat. He did manage to hold his katana across the long, elegant throat as Methos stood up awkwardly, the pain of the Quickening clear in his face. He swallowed but didn't flinch away. "If that makes you feel better, MacLeod," he said, in the same quiet voice he had used before. "I did what I had to do. So must you."

"Damn you!" MacLeod shouted. "Why! He was nothing to you. It was a fair challenge!"

Methos made no move away from the blade at his neck. "Yes, and I challenged him, he accepted. I gave him every chance to walk away, MacLeod. He refused. As to why – do I need a reason? You know what I am." The dark eyes blazed angrily.

"I don't know who or what you are, Methos. Go to hell," MacLeod said roughly, tossing his sword away. Methos looked at him with something a little like regret, then turned and walked slowly away, leaving MacLeod with the headless corpse.

He couldn't stay there – people were already beginning to be up and about walking their yappy dogs. He dragged the body under one of the exquisitely trimmed box bushes and called Joe on his mobile. "Joe?"

"Jesus, Mac – it's six freaking am! What the hell do you want?" Joe's voice was hoarse from sleep and the late night before – MacLeod knew it would have been two at the earliest before his Watcher would have got to bed.

"Joe, listen, there's a clean up needed at the Luxembourg Gardens." He described the location of the body. "I've got to get out of here. Are you on it?''

"Yeah, Mac. Thanks for letting me know. One of yours?"

"Sort of. Our elderly friend took him down."

"Me...?" Joe almost squeaked in surprise before remembering discretion. "Uh, yeah. Are you sure?"

"Saw it myself. Look, I've got to go. I'll call you later." Mac was already striding out of the gardens, and shut the cell phone off.

Now it was over, his anger at Methos and Amanda returned. How could they? – how _dare_ they? They knew the rules of the Game as well as he did. More than that, this was a matter of justice as well as of honour. Now he wished that he _had_ fought Methos but he knew it would have left him feeling far more unsatisfied than he was now to take on a weakened opponent of (he felt confident) lesser skill. No, taking Methos' head wouldn't give him half the pleasure than a good old-fashioned thrashing would.

He was back at the barge before he remembered Amanda would be there, and then it was too late. She ran down the gangway and into his arms. "Oh, honey, you're alive. Thank God."

He pushed her off him carefully. "You had no business talking to Methos about this, Amanda. This was between me and Keane."

"And now Keane is dead. It's over, Duncan. Over and done with. Come inside and have breakfast." Her hand stole inside his pants pocket. "Or is there something else you need?" she added slyly.

"Maybe you should be talking to Methos," he said unkindly. "He took the kill." He went to walk past her onto the barge but she laid a hand on his arm.

"Methos? Methos killed him? For you?"

"No – not for me," he lied. Still she would not let him go and only his ingrained chivalry prevented him from pushing her roughly aside. He really needed some coffee.

"Duncan, why else would Methos kill Keane?"

He answered her as Methos had done him. "You know what he is."

She stood and looked at him solemnly, her arms crossed. "I know he's your friend, Duncan."

MacLeod couldn't deal with her any more. "I'm going out," he said, turning on his heels and walking along the pavement.

"Duncan...."

"Leave it, Amanda." He continued to walk away from the barge. His lover, wiser than he had thought, did not follow.

He went to a café nearby, one where he was partial to both the coffee and their superior croissants, but although he ordered both and presumably consumed both since they disappeared, he remembered neither eating nor drinking. Images from the recent past filled his mind – Methos, that morning, vulnerable at his feet. Methos, crying for a lost friend in Kronos' hideout. Himself, pleading for the old man's life. Holding the katana against Methos' long throat. Meetings on holy ground – they were making a habit of it, MacLeod thought, remembering Coltec's Quickening. Another time Methos had put himself in harm's way for his sake.

The pictures collided until he could make no sense of them. He had spoken the literal truth to Methos that morning, even though he had spoken in anger. He really had no idea who or what the man was. And now, after once again coming so close to killing a friend, he made the decision that it was about time he did know who he was dealing with.

Methos' modern flat was within walking distance of the barge, something that had caused MacLeod some amusement in the beginning and now just puzzled him, since 'Adam Pierson' could hardly afford the area or the accoutrements. The man didn't have a doorbell for reasons best known to him, so MacLeod banged hard on the glass door. He could feel Methos was inside, but the other Immortal took his sweet time answering. When he did, it was with a sword in his hand. "Come to finish the job, Highlander?" He made no move to let MacLeod past.

"I just want to talk to you." He edged closer, but found the tip of the broadsword under his chin before he had a chance to move more than an inch forward.

"Not today, MacLeod. I'm not in the mood."

MacLeod looked at his friend. Methos was only wearing boxers and a rather expensive looking silk Chinese robe tied loosely. From the state of his hair, Mac guessed he might have been in bed when he knocked.

"Look, Methos – I don't want to argue with you...."

"Good," Methos said curtly. "Mac, I'm tired. Amanda woke me up at three a.m. and sat here all night talking to me, and I've taken a Quickening. All I want to do is jerk off and go to sleep."

MacLeod's breath caught as he called up the image Methos had just evoked – lying swathed in the green silk of his robe, one hand around a cock Mac just knew was long and beautiful, his face flushed as he reached climax.... "Are you listening to me, MacLeod?" Methos' impatient voice broke into his thoughts. "I want to be left alone."

"I heard you, Methos. But this is important." Now his attention had been drawn to it, MacLeod could see Methos' erection trapped by the close fitting boxers. He tried not to stare.

"And I _said_...." Mac had had enough, and pushed his way in, brushing the sword aside as he did, knowing Methos had no more intention of using it on him than Mac had this morning. "Fuck it, MacLeod, what the _hell_ do you think you are doing?"

"Something I should have done after – no, before Bordeaux."

"And that would be?" Still holding the lethal blade with one hand, Methos pulled the robe closer around him with his other, hiding his broad chest.

"Getting to know my friend."

"Very touching, MacLeod. Can I remind you that this morning you told me to go to hell? Anyway, who are you to call yourself my friend? I haven't seen a whole lot of evidence of it recently."

MacLeod made himself at home on the throne chair, idly noting the beautiful finish of the hand-crafted piece. _Worth a fortune_ , he thought. "No, you haven't. That's what I wanted to talk about."

Methos ran a hand through his short hair and sighed noisily in frustration. "Do you mind if I at least put some clothes on?"

 _Yes_ , MacLeod nearly said. "Of course not. Do you want me to make coffee?"

"If you must." Methos grabbed a handful of clothes and stalked into his bathroom to dress in privacy. MacLeod soothed his agitated mind with the familiar ritual of filling the coffee maker and setting it on the stove. It was still early – barely eight o'clock, he realised. He wondered if Methos had eaten and decided to make toast anyway.

Methos looked at the plate of buttered toast, the coffee cups laid out, and stared at MacLeod. "Is this some sort of bizarre Scottish custom, Mac? Threaten to kill someone at dawn, make them breakfast afterwards?"

"Oh, aye," MacLeod answered, larding on the brogue, "but only in the Hi'lands, mind." Methos snatched up a piece of bread and munched on it, annoyance clear on his face. "Methos, I really just want to talk. We don't have to do it here if you don't want."

"Here is fine, Mac," Methos said, with a sudden relaxation of the tense set of his shoulders. He grinned ruefully. " _Now_ is the problem. I had a nice little fantasy going there when you knocked. Things like that can stunt a growing boy."

MacLeod blushed hot. "Uh – do you need a hand?"

Methos sprayed him with coffee. "Mac! Oh shit," Methos said, dabbing at the droplets on his sweater. "Give me a cloth," he ordered, and abashed, MacLeod handed him a tea towel so he could brush the liquid off. "Not funny, MacLeod," he said finally.

"I only meant...."

"What are you, Dr Ruth all of a sudden?" Mac opened his mouth to explain, but Methos put his hand up. "No. I don't want to know. Duncan, I've been 'handling' myself for a very long time. I don't need help. Just privacy. Anyway, the problem seems to have resolved itself for the moment." Methos' glare silenced any further comment MacLeod might want to make. "So – what couldn't wait? If you want me to apologise about Keane, forget it. I don't ask you about the heads you take, and I'm damned if I'm going to justify myself to you. Not again, MacLeod."

Mac regretted the switch from 'Duncan' back to 'MacLeod'. "No, I don't want that. I don't think you had any right what you did...."

Methos' expression went hard, and the sarcasm re-entered his tone."Tough...."

"Shut up, Methos. I was _going_ to say, but I figure you meant well. I don't want it to come between us." There. He'd kept his temper and been gracious. What more could Methos want?

Methos' jaw went slack, but he recovered quickly. "I sometimes wonder who in fucking creation you think you are, you arrogant, peat-breathed Scottish sheepshagger." The words were said so calmly and quietly, MacLeod almost missed their meaning, and when he got it, he blinked.

"What did I say?"

"Do you ever – _ever_ – listen to yourself, MacLeod? You make decisions about who to kill or not to kill all the bloody time, and heaven help any one who argues with you about it! But God forbid that _I_ should make a judgment. I mean, I've only been making my own choices now for five thousand fucking _years_ now! You don't know the first thing about me, or what motivates me or how I think or feel or reason, but that's okay because I meant well? You patronising bastard!" Methos was shouting now. MacLeod watched the tirade with a kind of horrified fascination, and two thoughts came to him. One – Methos was swearing again. He rarely swore, not in English. Two – Methos looked utterly hot when he was ... well, hot. And bothered. "Are you even listening to me now, you oaf?!"

"Yes, Methos," he said meekly.

The attempt at placation failed utterly. Methos slammed the coffee cup down hard on the tray, knocking over MacLeod's cup. He stalked away before turning and staring at MacLeod with his arms crossed over his chest, his lips pursed in anger. "I really want you to get out of my home. And out of my life while you're at it."

MacLeod shook his head. "No, you don't." He didn't know where the certainty came from but it was the surest thing in his life right now.

The thin lips disappeared completely now, and the high colour of Methos' anger now showed white spots of tension among the red. "Decided you're also a mind-reader as well as the Lord High Executioner, too?"

"No, Methos. Could you calm down? You look like you're going to burst a blood vessel or something."

"Like you bloody well care."

With shock, Mac realised the hurt behind the sarcasm. "I care," he declared, offended at this accusation almost more than anything else Methos had hurled at him.

"Like hell, Highlander. Tell me something, MacLeod. Where have you been for the last month?"

MacLeod was genuinely puzzled. "Paris – why?"

"And where have I been?"

Mac creased his forehead trying to work out where this game of 'Twenty Questions' was headed. "Dunno – Paris, too, I guess."

"You guess." The voice dripped with sarcasm. "You _guess_. After what we went through in Bordeaux – after what _I_ went through, your idea of friendship was to bugger off for a month and ignore me."

"After what _you_ went through?" MacLeod's banked anger began to flare again. "Are you serious? You walked away from _me_. I'm the one ...."

"What, MacLeod?" Methos was suddenly very close indeed and hissing in Mac's face, his nostrils flaring. "Found out some uncomfortable truths about a friend? Got to fight the bad guys? Helped the friend kill _his_ friends? You kill people almost every week. You meet bad guys all the time. What, if you'll pardon my stupidity, was so bloody horrible that you had to ignore me for weeks over it?"

" _Ignore_ you?"

"You know, if it wasn't for Joe, I wouldn't even know you were alive. And the first contact I have with you is because your _girlfriend_ was worried about you. Tell me – if I hadn't shown up this morning, would you be talking to me now? In the next month? Next six months?"

"Maybe," Mac replied, defensively. The hazel eyes bored into his. "I don't know," he said more honestly.

"Then tell me this, MacLeod. Keane wanted to take your head because of a monomania he'd been cultivating for more than two hundred years after you killed a murdering English bastard. You would have let him go if I hadn't killed him, wouldn't you?"

"Maybe." Mac felt uncomfortably hot under the piercing gaze.

"Maybe," Methos repeated derisively. "Try definitely. You care about a stranger – an obsessive, dangerous stranger who threatened you, who kidnapped Amanda, who was prepared to do whatever it took to get to you. But for me? What do you give me? What the _fuck_ did I ever do to you to deserve your contempt?"

"I don't feel...."

Methos cut him off. "Contempt, MacLeod. Disregard, lack of concern, lack of kindness. Lack of the milk of human goodness that overflows to the Stephen Keanes of the world, but, oops, runs short when it comes to your good buddy, Adam Pierson." Methos took a seat in the throne chair. "I needed to talk to you, Mac," he said bitterly. "I wanted to talk to you about Cassandra – about us, about me. That's a lot for me to admit after five thousand years, let me tell you. But you've been avoiding me like I've got Ebola, as if ... as if all of what happened was _nothing_ to me. You can't see past your own pride and arrogance to notice other people's pain. You wouldn't listen to Amanda so she had to come to me. I came to help you, you told me to screw myself, and then to go to hell. After, by the way, offering to take my head. You think I'd want you in my home any more? Think again, pal."

His eyes shuttered, and MacLeod was closed out. He felt ill, his stomach providing the perfect physical background to the anger and confusion in his mind. Methos was being unfair. He hadn't asked for Amanda's help, or Methos'. All he'd wanted was to lay the ghosts of Culloden to rest without getting any more people hurt. But at the same time, he realised that Methos was angry and hurting as much as he was. If they were ever going to repair their broken friendship, it looked like Mac was going to have to make the first move.

"Methos...."

"Duncan, please go away." Methos' voice was just tired now. Mac remembered the lack of sleep, and the Quickening, and his own anger leached away. Neither of them were in the right shape for this. He walked to the throne chair and touched Methos gently on the shoulder. Methos looked up, and his eyes were devoid of anything but weariness.

"I'll go. I'm sorry, Methos." Methos nodded, a tiny movement, acknowledging his words. "Will you let me talk to you later? After you've had some sleep?" Mac saw the reluctance. "Come to supper," he asked impulsively. The invitation clearly surprised his friend.

"Amanda?" Methos asked warily.

"She's going out of town. We won't be interrupted."

Methos considered, then sighed. "All right."

MacLeod felt unreasonably happy at his word. "Tonight then. Eight, or thereabouts."

Methos nodded again, then shut his eyes. Interview terminated.

MacLeod let himself out.

* * *

The meeting with Methos rattled MacLeod almost more than the discovery of his ancient friend's bloody-handed past had done. Methos had needed him? His accusation stung, the more so for its truth – Mac _had_ ignored him. The past crimes were so monstrous, Cassandra's pain so awful, that Mac couldn't sweep it under the carpet the way Methos seemed to want to do. Mac told himself he couldn't deal with Methos and all that went with him right now and had avoided him, handling his anger and his disappointment alone. In secret, he hoped Methos was suffering too. But where had all this avoidance got them? It had got Stephen Keane dead. He could no longer avoid dealing with Methos – but still, he didn't know how to go about that

He couldn't stay away from the barge forever – Amanda was flying off to Zurich and would be justifiably hurt if he failed to say goodbye. He never wanted to see the pain in her lovely brown eyes that he had seen that morning in Methos'. The pain of ... rejection? That was what Methos had said. Did the old man feel more alone now without the other Horsemen in the world? Without three men who had known him almost since the first? Mac realised he had failed in his mission – he had gone looking for answers, and had left with more questions.

Warned off perhaps by his coolness earlier, Amanda did not rush to meet him at the barge. She was on the sofa, her long legs tucked under herself. "Feeling better, Duncan?" He sat next to her and kissed her gently.

"A little. Listen, I'm sorry about what I said. You were worried and I was an asshole."

"That about sums it up, yeah." She grinned and kissed him back. "But you're my asshole." She uncurled. "So did you see Methos?"

"I didn't say...."

"Oh, come on, Duncan. You lit out of here like your tail was on fire and who were we talking about? So how is he?"

"Tired. Said you kept him up all night. Should I be jealous?" He slid an arm around her and smiled to show he was joking. She punched him lightly.

"I'll have you know he looks damn hot in boxers, Duncan MacLeod. You pull any more stunts like that Keane thing and maybe I'll just mosey on over and see if I can get him out of them." Mac's breath caught and guiltily he hoped if she noticed, Amanda would assume his sudden erection was because of her, not because her lover had remembered a long column of muscled flesh rising out of white cotton, framed in a V by fine silk.

"Oh, yeah," he managed to respond.

"Yeah," she riposted. "Listen, honey, I have to go. You know what the traffic's like this time of day."

"Need a lift?"

She kissed him. "No, that's sweet but I wouldn't do that to you. Now you and Methos make nice, okay? He really is fond of you. And next time I'm back, I'm serious about Tahiti."

"What is it with you and Methos and Polynesia anyway? What's wrong with Seacouver?"

She looked at her watch and grinned. "Sorry, Duncan, if you don't know, I don't have time to explain. See you in a couple of weeks."

He caught her arm. "You said three days!"

She freed herself gracefully. "Something came up. Bye, Duncan." She waved and turned away.

He thought about trying to find out more but then he thought for the sake of his peace of mind, he would be better off not knowing. He watched her beautiful rear disappear up the stairs, and wished for a second that she would turn around and announce she wasn't going. But then, he did have things to sort out with Methos.

He was tired himself, having slept badly, but his mind churned too much for rest. Keane's death still rankled. Despite Methos' condemnation, he'd felt instinctively that Keane had not been a bad person – it was even likely that he'd been a far better man than one Duncan MacLeod. _Nothing good had come out of Culloden,_ he thought, _even after all this time_. Well, he refused to let his friendship with Methos be another casualty of a long-dead conflict, or even of the long since forgotten crimes of either of them.

He owed Joe an explanation too, he realised, and when he went out after lunch to pick the ingredients for the meal, he stopped by the bar. Joe was doing a sound check with some new equipment, and for a few moments MacLeod just watched and listened in pleasure as the bluesman made love to his guitar. Even Mike the barman stopped wiping surfaces to listen. Joe looked up and saw his rapt audience. He grinned. "Sorry, guys, sometimes I get a little carried away."

MacLeod grinned. "No apology necessary."

Joe settled onto a stool next to Mac. "Okay, spill. Why is Adam breaking the habit of centuries and taking heads?"

"Keane challenged me. Amanda somehow got it into her head that I would lose, and persuaded Methos to intervene." He couldn't keep the resentment out of his voice.

Joe stared at him for several long moments. "Our Methos?" he asked finally.

"Yes, our Methos."

"Boy, he's got it bad," Joe said, drinking from a glass of water.

"And what do you mean by that?"

Joe sat back. "You're pissed, aren't you? Methos took your challenge and all you can think about is that he interfered."

"Methos killed Keane, Joe. He shouldn't have done that. I didn't want him dead. It was my mess, my problem. Methos had no right...."

"Aw, right, schmight, MacLeod. We're talking about our Methos, okay? Don't you ever ask yourself why he keeps doing stuff like this for you? Even after Kronos and Cassandra?"

"Okay, I'll bite," Mac said in annoyance when it was clear Joe wasn't going to explain. "What the hell am I missing?"

Joe shook his head and laughed. "You don't get it, do you? You're two of a kind. Go on and get out of here, MacLeod, I got a bar to run. But if you'll take a word of advice from an old soldier – getting up on your high horse makes it harder to see what's happening right under your nose. And I'll tell you another thing – your Cassandra knows diddly squat about Adam Pierson. Or Methos. You think about that. Now, shoo."

It sure seemed his day for being tossed out of places. He gave up and went to do his shopping, letting the Zen of selecting his ingredients and planning the meal soothe his temper which was increasingly difficult to keep under control. What was so bloody mysterious about his relationship with Methos? Why the hell was it the source of so much pain, when it could be ... _what, MacLeod?_ he asked himself. Best friends? Fuck buddies – came damn close to that this morning. Allies in the Game? – he could never seriously consider taking the old man's head, and he doubted Methos could do it. He'd had his chance often enough.

The problem was, they had never been properly introduced. MacLeod had called the curiously young looking Immortal he had found that day 'Methos', and the fey creature had smiled and offered him a beer. But was 'Methos' who he really was? He knew himself to be – no, wait, he _called_ himself Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but was that true any more? Was it ever true, being a foundling? Hadn't he lost the right to call himself that after his father cast him out, whatever his mother had done afterwards? Maybe the problem wasn't Methos. Maybe it was that he didn't know who Duncan MacLeod was.

Even for a man used to introspection and brooding, the events of the day were bringing on a headache that, if he were mortal, would probably lead to a migraine. Strange how often he had that sensation since he met Methos – Amanda was the only other person who regularly induced it. Fitz had done so – _Fitz_ , he thought suddenly, sorrowfully. Methos had replaced Fitz's place in his life. He was the one now who MacLeod drank with, joked with, went out with – but not any more. After Kronos ... well, Methos was right. Mac had turned away from him. And now he missed Methos' place in his life, just as he missed Fitz like his right arm.

He couldn't treat Methos like Fitzcairn. Not really. For one thing, Methos was fiendishly more difficult to understand than the simple, pleasure-seeking Fitz. And for another – well, to put it bluntly, part of his relationship with Fitz was bound up in them sharing a bed from time to time, with or without a willing female between them. Despite his clumsy offer to Methos that morning, he couldn't really see himself in a threesome with him. Or rather, he _could_ , but he had a feeling it would be something he would enjoy while it happened, and live a long time regretting. Fitz was about no regrets, no conflicts. Mac argued with Methos all the time. So when had the ancient stepped into Fitz's shoes?

Maybe it was when Methos fell in love with Alexa. That had dropped all his barriers, and Mac got a glimpse of the softer, sweeter side of the prickly immortal. And then there was the Dark Quickening. Mac thought it was probably after that he had started to think of Methos as his close friend – maybe even his best friend.

Alexa had died so very soon after that, and when Methos had come back to Paris to bury her, Mac was the one who was there to help, and to listen. Not as much as he could have done, he thought guiltily. He remembered several times when he had been too busy to go out with Methos, or to have a drink with him, or had found Methos tipsy with Joe watching carefully over him when Mac had come into the bar.

Dammit, he thought. Alexa had died just under a year before Kronos had re-entered Methos' life – and now Methos had the deaths of his lover and his friend, and his former companions to deal with. He needed Mac's friendship, Methos had told him straight – but even with that, he had risked Mac's inevitable anger and losing that friendship to protect him.

 _I'm getting too old for this_ , MacLeod told himself, trying to pick apart the knotted strands of Methos' behaviour – and failing miserably.

* * *

He took more care over the meal than he was wont to do, and that alone made him recall that on those rare occasions when Mac had eaten in Methos' flat, he'd had always presented him with an invariably delicious repast. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe he and Methos weren't that different after all.

He'd left the time of his invitation deliberately vague so not to seem pushy, but Methos arrived dead on eight o'clock, his timeliness something else Mac had come to take for granted. The politeness of princes, as the proverb had it.

Methos was unaware, naturally, of his ruminations, and stood in the living room looking a little uncertain, holding up a six pack and a plastic bag with two wine bottles. "I wasn't sure which was appropriate...."

"Just you would have been enough – but thank you." Methos' eyes opened at the formal thanks, and he smiled a little in acknowledgement. MacLeod opened the bag, and whistled. "Wow – Methos, this is much too much."

Methos waved a hand. "Just a little something from my store, bought it when it was a new vintage. Not everything I buy lasts so well." Mac was glad he had gone to some trouble over the meal, and the elegant wine would go well with the fowl and the fruit.

"Would you like a beer or an aperitif?"

Methos was amused. "Beer, Mac.What's got into you, anyway? Have you been infested with the ghost of Martha Stewart?"

"No, Iain MacLeod," he said, handing him the opened bottle.

"You don't need to treat me like a guest, Mac – unless this is your way of telling me not to treat you too casually?"

MacLeod was shocked. "Jesus, Methos – do you have to see the worst in everyone?"

"Saves time," Methos said, not without a soupçon of bitterness.

"Well, not this time. If anything, I'm trying to apologise for treating you too casually."

Methos refused to take it seriously. "If you really want to do a good job, get out the ostrich feather fans and peel me a grape. What the hell has brought this on?"

"You did. Don't you remember what you said to me this morning?"

Methos rubbed his face. "Um – remind me. I was not exactly in a good mood, and I tend to let my tongue run away with me."

Mac thought he was lying, but played his game. "You told me I'd been a crappy friend to you lately."

"Oh, yes, I remember. And you said you wanted to get to know me better." He stood up. "Let me introduce myself – Methos, world's oldest pain in the arse, or so I've been told." He gave a little bow, sat down and saluted Mac with his beer bottle. "There you go, that's all there is to know, or all you need to know."

"That's what you think I think, don't you?" Mac came and sat next to him. Methos shrugged. "We really have got a lot of ground to cover."

"Mac, I generally find life is simpler if you don't delve down too far into things. Saves you a lot of pain, in the long run." Methos' expression and his voice were calm, but his eyes told a different story.

"Well, maybe I can't compete with five millennia of wisdom, but in four hundred years, I've found friendship is the one thing you need to survive."

"But it brings pain. Sometimes too much pain."

"Are you talking about you and me, Methos?" Mac tried to keep any hint of accusation out of his voice.

Methos shook his head. "Not really." He shook his empty bottle. "Whatever you're cooking smells wonderful, and I have to admit, I haven't eaten all day. Any chance of food?"

MacLeod recognised the attempt to change the subject, and wisely decided to leave it until his guest was fed and watered and a little less tense. The chicken, nuts and stone fruit accompaniment were cooked to perfection, and the scented rice that went with it cut the intense flavour back to exactly the right level. The magnificent wine Methos had brought was savoured and appreciated by both of them, and Mac listened with interest as Methos described how he had once owned a large vineyard, had made wine and bottled it with his own hands, and spoke knowledgeably about soil and varieties and storage methods. The conversation flowed easily over the salad, and the cheese, and into the simple dessert of yoghurt and marrons glacés. "That's one of my favourite puds, you know, Mac," Methos sighed with satisfaction, inelegantly swiping a neglected remnant of the goop from his bowl with his finger and sucking on it with an expression of bliss.

"I didn't know, but I'm glad. Amanda taught it to me – you know she hates to cook, and that just needs a can opener and a pot of decent Greek yoghurt."

"Smart girl. Where is the little vixen off to?"

"She had business in Zurich – she wouldn't tell me what."

"You'd be better off not knowing," Methos said with a grin.

"That's what I told myself. Coffee?'

Between them, they had drunk both the bottles of wine, Methos insisting that it had kept long enough, and he rarely had the chance to drink wine with food that complemented it so well. Mac was more than a little tipsy, and Methos, being slighter, was well into happy garrulousness, explaining a complicated recipe for peacock he had once invented. Mac decided to risk a brandy with the coffee – he could always walk the other Immortal home. He settled on the sofa and handed Methos his drink. The old man looked at him owlishly.

"Mac, if you're trying to get me drunk to have your way with me, I have to tell you you're wasting your time."

"No chance with you, huh?" Mac said, playing along.

"Just saying you needn't waste the alcohol." MacLeod tried to keep the surprise off his face, but Methos laughed anyway. "Come off it, Duncan. You've been flirting with me on and off for two years now, and what was that this morning? 'Can I give you a hand, Methos?'" he said in a sing-song voice. "Christ, I thought I'd come in my pants right there and then."

"Are you saying you'd like to go to bed with me?"

For the first time that evening, Methos looked flustered. "No, I...well, dammit, yes, who wouldn't, Mac? But it would be a monumentally bad idea."

"I agree," MacLeod said calmly.

"Not your usual type, I know," Methos said with a hint of resignation, sipping from the coffee cup equally calmly, but with a touch of high colour in his cheeks.

"Methos, you're as much my type as anyone else. I don't have a 'type'. All I meant was, I don't want to be your lover until I'm your friend. And up to now, I think I've really sucked at that, as Richie would say."

Methos settled back against the arm of the sofa and looked at him appraisingly, the hazel eyes open and disconcertingly innocent looking. "Why the sudden burst of good will towards all things Methosian?"

"Well, for one thing, I nearly took your head this morning. I am glad I didn't but I never want to be in that position again."

To his utter surprise, Methos laughed. "Don't worry, Highlander, you won't be." He laughed again at MacLeod's expression. "You don't know, do you – I forget how young you are. You _can't_ take my head, Mac, nor me yours."

"That's no protection." Mac said gruffly. "I've killed friends before."

"Yes, I know. That's not what I'm talking about. You can hate my guts and you won't be able to do it. We shared a Quickening – didn't you know what that meant?"

MacLeod shook his head. "I'd never heard of it happening before – Joe certainly hasn't."

Methos smiled sardonically. "Yeah, well, the Watchers don't know everything, thank God. Take it from me – you could kill yourself more easily than you can kill me. I was never in any danger, nor were you. So if this is," waving his hand at the coffee and the brandy, "is a guilt fest because of that, then forget about it."

MacLeod was suddenly very angry. "So that's why you killed Keane – you didn't take me seriously. And all that bullshit about letting me take your head – more of your games?" He got up and stalked over to the fireplace, wishing it was cold enough to need a fire so he could poke it.

"Mac, calm down. Yes, I knew you couldn't kill me, but that wasn't the reason I killed Keane. I knew you would be angry, and I knew you might never speak to me again about it – believe me, Highlander, I take that sanction nearly as seriously as losing my head." MacLeod looked at him directly when he heard that, but he saw no mockery in the dark eyes. "I killed Keane because compulsive-obsessives like him are a bloody menace, and judgmental compulsive-obsessives are nauseating. Who knows who he might decide to come after next? Amanda? Me? He was a threat to you, and that was unacceptable."

"All Immortals are a potential threat."

"Well, I'm not. Amanda's not. Richie's not. You're the one Immortal who has more friends than enemies, you know that?"

MacLeod recognised the effort to soothe him, and would not allow it. "So what's wrong with us, Methos? Why don't you trust me?"

Methos sighed and patted the sofa. "Come and sit, Mac, you're making me nervous pacing about like that. Any more of that brandy? I'm starting to sober up and I think this conversation is better with a buzz on." Mac silently obeyed the request, but Methos refused to continue until they both had snifters in their hands. "I do trust you – well, as much as I trust anyone."

"You mean, not at all, or you'd have told me about the Horsemen."

Methos stared at him, put his glass down with slow deliberation. and then got up and put his coat on. "Back to that already? Congratulations, MacLeod, I thought we wouldn't make it through dessert before that came up, but you managed to raise it in time for indigestion. Thanks for the meal."

"Methos!" Mac shouted, but the old man moved faster than MacLeod thought was humanly possible and was up the steps and out of the barge in two seconds flat. Cursing, MacLeod grabbed his coat and ran after him but when he got to the deck, he was nowhere to be seen. "Adam!" he called but there was no response.

 _Dammit!_ MacLeod thought. _Why the hell did I have to bring that up?_ Things had been going so well up until then. The question had slipped out almost involuntarily, and the stupid thing was, Methos had already answered it honestly in the Elysium church in Bordeaux. 'I knew how you'd react,' he'd said. And it wasn't even the question Mac actually wanted to ask.

He located a bottle of one hundred and fifty year old brandy and shoved it into his coat pocket before walking over to Methos' flat. He wasn't entirely surprised that his knock was greeted with a muffled 'bugger off, MacLeod,' nor when his persistence was rewarded by a furious Methos brandishing a sword. "Hello, I'm Duncan MacLeod and I'm an asshole," he said quickly to forestall Methos' eruption.

It worked – Methos suddenly grinned. "Planning to start a support group, Mac? What do you want? I'm tired and I've had too much to drink. Come back in the morning."

"It's already morning, and are you sure?" He pulled out the bottle and showed it to Methos.

"I'm impressed. So is this an apology?"

"No, a restart. Can I please come in? You know you won't use that thing, you told me that yourself."

"There's nothing to stop me killing you and burying you in wet concrete though," Methos said bad-temperedly. He did, however, stand away from the door.

"You wouldn't," Mac said, slightly horrified at the image.

"Try me. And I'm sure you will, so pour some of that out and make coffee. I'm going to wash my face and try and wake up since you obviously have this aversion to my actually sleeping in my own apartment." He disappeared.

 _Déja vu all over again_ , MacLeod thought, as for the second time that day, he made coffee in the small kitchen. Methos had already changed from the tidy blazer and slacks he has worn to dinner into a set of disreputable sweats. He sauntered back into the room, tucked his feet up on the sofa and pulled the blanket over himself. "Cold?" MacLeod asked with some surprise.

"At this time of night, yeah. Mac, it really is late, and I hate arguing with you."

"Then don't. Just talk. Can I ask another question?"

Methos looked at him suspiciously over the brandy snifter, his eyes almost closed in thought. "That depends on the question."

"How did you join the Horsemen?"

"And what happens if you don't like the answer?"

"Nothing. I just want to know. Look – I know you think I'm a judgmental bastard, and maybe you're right, but you've got to understand, Methos. This is so far out of my experience – it was so long ago. Can't you just help me understand?"

"You're not looking for an apology, I hope. I'm fresh out."

"No, I'm not," Mac said firmly. "But I know you – hell, Joe's first reaction was disbelief when Cassandra told him. We _know_ you're not like that any more. I just want to know ... what you were like then. And how you came to be...."

"The witty, urbane, devilishly handsome fellow you see before you?" Methos said, strained humour in his voice.

"Yeah." Mac grinned to ease the tension. "Do you like the Cognac?"

"What's not to like? It's very nice, thanks. Take off your shoes, Mac, and put your feet up here." He indicated the length of sofa beside him, and MacLeod did as he was bid, stretching his legs along those of Methos, who covered them both up with the rug. It was cosy and intimate and Mac couldn't hide his grin. An appropriate position for story-telling indeed. "Now, are you sitting comfortably?"

"Put your feet in my lap, Methos – I can give them a rub." Methos looked thoroughly taken aback but put them tentatively on his thigh. Mac grabbed one long foot and began to massage it. "Okay, the Horsemen."

Methos stretched with evident pleasure. "God, that feels good, Mac. Okay, once upon a time there was a nasty bunch of murdering thieving bastards, and the biggest nasty murdering thieving bastard of them all was called Methos..."

He stopped at the look on Mac's face. "You want to know why, don't you?" Mac nodded, unwilling to say the wrong thing. "Think about it, Duncan. My people were farmers, I remember that much. That and being thrown out of the camp as a devil with a thorough stoning. Those sort of people don't like strangers or extra mouths to feed, and I couldn't exactly breed up my own tribe of sons, could I? The only kind who would let me be with them were outcasts like myself – thieves, rapists, nice sorts. We couldn't grow crops, we could only take food from others. I was good at it, good at organising men, their efforts. I was welcome so long as I didn't challenge the leader of any group I was with.

"You weren't the leader?"

Methos shook his head slightly. "I avoided it as much as I could. Being the leader is dangerous, Mac."

He recognised the truth of that. "And that's all you did?'

"I didn't do it all the time – I spent time in Egypt, in cities, but time after time, I would find myself cast out, and down on my luck. I got fed up of it finally, and put together my own band of raiders. For a time we were all we needed for each other. But war, the fall of empires, would come and we would be pursued and pushed out of existence, or larger predators would drive us away. Over and over I had to start from nothing, or I was captured and put to work for other men's plans. Only the ruthless survived that kind of life for long. I was bloody ruthless, MacLeod. But not as ruthless as some."

Mac reached for the bottle and topped up their glasses, taking a few seconds to collect his thoughts. "Is that how Kronos found you?" he asked as calmly as he could.

"Yes. Killed the men who had me. Offered me slavery, death or the chance to join him. I saw no earthly reason not to accept – I didn't know him that well then," he said ruefully. "Caspian and Silas joined us not long after, and then Kronos said we only needed the four of us. He was ambitious, but he wasn't that well travelled, not like me. I added breadth to his plans. It was good for a very long time – for hundreds of years, we did as we liked, and Kronos and I were brothers in everything. I loved the freedom, the power. Imagine, MacLeod, being able to take anything you wanted without anyone being able to stop you. To go anywhere, to do _whatever_ you want." Methos stared at him, his words measured, his eyes serious, daring him to consider the matter carefully and not react from his gut.

"But it was wrong, Methos," Mac couldn't help saying.

"By whose rules, Mac?" Methos said with more gentleness than Mac had expected. "Yes, killing is bad, theft is bad. Rape is bad. All of it is bad and destructive – so society makes rules against it. But we _had_ no society _and we made the rules._ "

Mac bit off the retort that rose to his lips. Seeing his expression, Methos gave him an ironic salute. "Bravo, Highlander, but you don't need to say it. Back then, it was what I felt I had to do. What I wanted to do. Now I don't want to do it. Not because it's 'wrong' or 'immoral' – but because I don't need to. And I never want to do it again. Never want to have to do it again." He shrugged. "I don't know how to explain it better than that. I'd be lying if I credited a religious conversion. Doesn't mean the desire not to kill, not to fight for the love of it, isn't bone deep."

Mac found his rhythmic rubbing of Methos' feet was helping keep him calm and, he suspected, allowing Methos to talk without feeling threatened. "What changed?"

"A few things, a few big quarrels. The cracks would appear and be papered over, we'd go on as before. Finally, it was Cassandra. Kronos became jealous, irrationally so. I realised that finally Kronos was turning his madness towards me. He hadn't done that before, not since the very beginning. It was never good after she escaped. I tried to leave several times – he always caught me. By the end I was a virtual prisoner in the camp."

"But you could have killed him – there must have been a chance somewhere along the way." Methos looked at him wryly, and Mac realised he had stopped rubbing his feet. He started again, and answered his own question. "You shared a Quickening?"

"Yes – in our first year together. That's why he couldn't kill me for my disloyalty, and I couldn't kill him. Escape was impossible – everyone in the camp was his spy. It was only when we were attacked by a much larger band of raiders that I finally managed to get away in the confusion. I honestly thought he was dead until I joined the Watchers and found the records on Melvin Koren. Then I searched for the others and found Caspian and Silas were still alive, so far as anyone knew."

"But you enjoyed doing what you did." Methos stilled and tried to pull his feet away. "Don't, Methos. I'm not judging – just trying to understand. What changed?"

"I did enjoy it for a long time. I was angry about the way I had been treated over and over again by mortals, and I valued them not at all. But the world changed. More people, more cities, more movement – more acceptance of strangers, better transport, more demand for education, more tolerance of the unusual. I was enslaved for a long time in the Roman empire and it was the making of me. I learned that not all mortals were ignorant fools and I learned how to move in their world without attracting attention. I got an education, learned manners, learned how to make money in other ways. I was always looking for another way than raiding – finally, I got it. I never looked back. Never wanted to look back, MacLeod," he said, seriously. "The day Kronos found me was the worst one in a very long life."

"And you've changed – you never wanted to live as he did?"

Methos laughed incredulously. "Mac – you _saw_ that dungeon he called home. He really liked the idea of throwing chicken legs on the floor and sleeping on pallets and living by firelight. He _loved_ the idea of living in a world of rotting, virus-ridden corpses. I don't. I like the world the way it is, with the people in it. I don't see myself as different from them any more. He still did. He never changed – forced himself not to. He was nuts."

Mac nodded, remembering the Quickening. "No kidding."

"So – enough information? Can I go to bed now?" He made no movement to do so, and indeed looked comfortable and relaxed on the sofa. His feet felt soft and warm under MacLeod's hands.

"You want to be alone?"

Methos went very still again. "Duncan – all joking aside, this is not a good idea. For a start, Amanda would kill me."

"Amanda is staying with her girlfriend in Zurich. Careful! That stuff's expensive! Come on, you didn't think she was monogamous, did you?"

Methos wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Not exactly – but I did think she preferred men."

"Mostly, but you know Amanda. She never refuses anything on principle. She and Julie have been seeing each other for a year or so, on and off."

Methos' eyes opened very wide, then he shook his head. "This doesn't change the fact that _you_ prefer women, and that you are a faithful lover, according to your Chronicles."

MacLeod permitted himself a slow, evil grin. "The Watchers don't know everything. Or so someone very old and wise said not so long ago. Don't choke, Methos."

The spluttering died down. "I'm going to make Joe eat those bloody books, I really am," Methos muttered. "What about you wanting to be friends first?"

Mac tapped his feet. "This isn't friendly?"

Methos smiled sadly. "No, it's lovely. Mac, I can't resist you tonight. I'm too tired, too drunk and too fucking lonely. But what about in the morning?"

"In the morning, we'll still be friends. Methos," he said earnestly, leaning forward, "when I thought you had gone to Kronos, it was like losing my soul. I don't want to feel like that again." He pushed Methos' feet aside gently and stood up, holding his hands out to help pull Methos up. When he was upright, he took the narrow face in his hands and kissed the soft mouth in a more brotherly fashion than he intended, but warmly enough to make Methos respond.

"I can't promise to always be around, Mac." Methos was a little breathless. "And I can't promise you'll always like what you find out about me, or the people I've known."

"Okay, I consider myself warned. And if it happens, we deal with it together, as friends."

Mac held him close. "Yes," Methos said seriously, but then he smiled. "You know, I think I like this chap, Duncan MacLeod. He's not such an arsehole when you get to know him."

"That's because he keeps excellent company. Come to bed, Methos."

And he did.

 

* * *

MacLeod used the few minutes while Methos cleared up their clutter to effect a quick wash and brush up in the bathroom. He wasn't sure if he should be undressed, but that question was answered when he saw that Methos had stripped and was sitting tailor fashion back against the headboard. Seeing the uncertain expression on his friend's face, he smiled and won a rather shy smile back. He took his clothes off, and folded them tidily before switching the light off and sitting on the edge of the bed. He picked up one of the hands which were resting on Methos' bent knees. "Been a while?" he asked gently.

"About three years," Methos said quietly. The room was dark now, and it seemed natural to talk in hushed tones.

Mac frowned. "But Alexa ... you and she...."

"We didn't, okay? I don't want to talk about Alexa," he said curtly. He went to move his hand, but MacLeod restrained it.

"With me, or at all?" he asked, keeping his tone gentle. He couldn't see Methos' eyes.

"With anyone, Mac." Methos was quiet for a long time, and MacLeod was content to sit there, tenderly stroking the soft skin on the inside of Methos' wrist. "You don't have to romance me, Duncan."

"I only know how to make love one way, Methos."

Methos touched the back of Mac's hand briefly in acknowledgement. "She would have been thirty-one next week. She died three days after her thirtieth birthday. The nurses shared a cake and we opened a bottle of champagne. It was horrible." Silence again. "She loved it, she was so happy that she'd made it that far. She told me once that when she was a child, thirty seemed so old." One hand came off his knee to swipe his face. "And it is the height of bad manners to talk about one's former lovers when in bed with a new one," he said dryly.

"I don't mind, Methos. I wasn't there for you as much as I could have been, I know."

"You were busy," Methos said simply, neither condemning nor negating his apology. "Are you ever coming up here?"

"Are you sure you want me to?"

Methos gave a little laugh. "Who's seducing whom, may I ask? I could have sworn it was a certain Scot who forced his way into my apartment, bearing expensive booze and demanding access to my bed?"

"Oh aye, I forgot. Well, best be on your stomach, laddie, and I'll get on with raping ye."

Methos laughed. "Ooh, thir," he lisped, "be merciful." He leaned over and wrapped his hands around the back of Mac's neck, drawing him close. "I'm going to kiss you now."

"About damn time," MacLeod said, before the lips he had long admired met his in a chaste, tender touch. He tentatively explored with his tongue and was readily admitted. Methos tasted like brandy and coffee, delicious. He bent forward, forcing Methos to lean back, until he was covering him with his body. Methos' skin was warm to the touch, smooth as a child's, only the crispness of his pubic hair declaring his adult state. But he was not aroused. Mac slid a hand between them and touched Methos' limp cock.

"Are you sure you want this, Methos? We could just sleep, you know."

Methos sighed. "Mac, you're a wonderful sight, and all I could want in a bed mate, but like I said, I'm tired, drunk and getting maudlin. Not much of a deal for you. You're welcome to stay. I'm sorry about...."

"Don't, Methos," Mac said, a finger on Methos' lips. "Why don't you just let me hold you? I bet it's been a long time since you had a cuddle."

Methos snorted, even as he made himself comfortable. "It's been a long time since anyone even used the word 'cuddle' in my august presence, let alone offered me one. Do you talk to Amanda like that?"

"Like what, schnookums?" and was not surprised to be punched in the arm.

"Yuck. Mac, I've known Amanda a long time and I know for a personal fact if you talked like that to her, you would be ten inches shorter."

MacLeod laughed and pulled the covers up over them before settling Methos in his arms for the promised cuddling. "You're right. But 'cuddle' is a perfectly good word, though. It sounds like what it does."

Methos shuddered dramatically. "It sounds like Winnie the Pooh, Duncan. You cuddle teddy bears and babies – not five thousand year old men."

"You do if the five thousand year old man needs it. Now be quiet and enjoy it."

"Yes sir, right away sir, obeying ... ooph...." Mac shut his annoying partner up by the simple expedient of clutching him close, making him exhale, then covering up the ever active mouth in a long, tender kiss. "Mmmm," Methos breathed in a wordless sound of pleasure.

"That's better. Good night, John boy."

"Night, Mary Ellen," Methos said contentedly.

* * *

In retrospect it had been a very bad idea to spend the night with someone so soon after Stephen Keane's demise, however right it had felt to offer. A stinging blow to his cheek broke into a horrific blood-soaked dream, watching his friends and clansmen die, seeing Rosemount fall to his sword over and over. The slap startled him wide-awake and the feel of an Immortal presence close by had him reaching for his sword, before he remembered where he was. "Methos?"

The other man was crawling out of bed awkwardly, and MacLeod fumbled for the bedside light before snapping it on. "Methos?" he asked again.

"I'm okay," Methos replied in a strained and very muffled voice. Mac was out of bed instantly and pulling Methos' hands away from his face.

"Jesus Christ! Did I do that?" Methos' nose was badly broken and streaming blood.

"Mac," he said, clearly wanting to get to the bathroom to clean up. Mac led the way and found a cloth. Methos sat on the closed toilet lid and tilted his head back, his eyes closed, as Mac carefully cleaned the blood away. The swelling was already disappearing.

"I need to set it, okay?" Methos nodded, then winced as Mac pushed the bones back into place. He held the cloth over it, hoping the cool water would ease the ache as it healed. "I'm sorry, Methos – I nearly did that to Amanda last night."

Methos lowered his head, and carefully felt his now recovered beak. "That makes me feel better – I thought it was me."

MacLeod couldn't gauge how much he was joking, and decided to take it at face value. He stroked Methos' cheek. "No, not you – Keane. Brought back memories I'd rather have forgotten."

Methos stood up. "I know the feeling. Don't fret, Mac – as you can see, I'm perfectly healed." He turned to walk out. Mac put a hand on his shoulder and gently turned him back.

"It wasn't you," he said again, taking Methos into his arms.

"I know," Methos said quietly. "Come back to bed?" Invitation and forgiveness in the one question.

Mac followed him back, and let Methos take the lead in drawing his head down onto his chest. That put Mac's mouth conveniently near one of Methos' nipples, so he gave it an experimental lick. He was rewarded by a little gasp, so he did it again. "I don't think that's going to help me sleep," Methos protested in a slightly strained voice.

"Oh," Mac said. He began to stroke Methos' hip languidly instead. Methos' hand tangled in his hair and long fingers began to rub at his scalp while his back was massaged gently. It was really too relaxing and despite his best efforts, he fell asleep where he lay, right on top of his friend.

* * *

A hand was still wrapped in his hair when Mac woke, as he discovered when he tried to move. He got a burble of protest so he lay still, glad the rest of the night had not been interrupted with violence or nightmares. Methos must have passed a peaceful night, he decided, and he was glad. The shadows under the old man's eyes were not something he liked to see. He lay quietly for half an hour or more, listening to his bed-mate's breathing.

"Mac?" Methos finally said softly.

"How did you know I was awake?" he asked, having been so careful to keep still.

"Your eyelashes are tickling me," Methos said in amusement.

Mac's cheek was indeed pressed closely enough that the lashes brushed the fine white skin when he blinked. "The princess and the pea has nothing on you," he grumbled. He placed a palm on the flat stomach, looking at the half-hardness of Methos' morning erection. "You slept okay?"

"Thanks, yes." Methos gave him a friendly scratch with the hand in his hair. "I'm glad you stayed."

"Even with the impromptu nose job?"

"I knew there was a reason I don't normally sleep with Immortals," he said, a smile clear in his voice. "We all have too much history. It could have been me belting you just as easily." Mac rubbed the palm on Methos' stomach a little before giving the swelling cock an exploratory caress and wrapping his fingers around it carefully. "Mac?"

"Shhh." He stroked Methos' erection lightly, and the hand in his hair began to move rhythmically. He moved his head towards the cock.

"Mac? You've done this before?"

"Methos," he said reprovingly. Did the man think he was a child? He put his lips over the cockhead, and felt Methos' stomach tighten in anticipation. He licked and the long cock instantly got harder. He manoeuvred himself so he could give the task his undivided attention. Methos' sex was just as he had imagined it, only better, although he'd had no idea how hard and lithe the body was that seemed permanently swathed in oversize jumpers of increasing disreputableness. He couldn't quite understand how the man had had to go three years without making love – if he had such an effect on Mac's well-exercised libido, Mac had trouble imagining that he would not affect women equally.

"Duncan...," Methos murmured. Mac lifted his head.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much in bed?" he said with a smile.

"Not anyone who left it with their head intact, no. I can't reach you like this."

"Just relax, Methos. Are you in a hurry to go anywhere?"

"Not in the least."

"Good. Now, before I was interrupted..." Mac moved back down, and took all of Methos' erection into his mouth. It had been a while, for sure, but he remembered this, and liked it, liked how the satin soft skin of a man's cock rubbed against his palate, and the taste of it.

He took his time over the blowjob, because he enjoyed doing it and because he loved the effect it was having on his partner. Methos was now kneading his hair and making breathy sounds of pleasure which aroused him inordinately. He felt Methos' testes draw up in their sacs as the cock in his mouth swelled more, and he sucked harder, urging the orgasm on and greedily swallowing the bitter essence. He took his time cleaning up too, reluctant to break the connection between them, but then he gradually became aware that Methos was urging him to look up. His face was cradled gently, and Methos' eyes were shining. "Thank you, Duncan. That was...exquisite."

"My pleasure," he said truthfully. He kissed his way up Methos' stomach and chest until his head was caught again and his mouth taken with a deep and honest passion. "What's wrong?" His friend's eyes weren't just shining from pleasure.

"Forgive me. It's just been so long, and it was...watching you, it was beautiful." Methos' voice was choking with emotion, and Mac felt slightly embarrassed.

"Get used to it. I'm here when you want, when you need. I won't abandon you again, I promise." He took one of Methos' hands and clasped their joined hands on Methos' chest. "I swear to you. I've been a poor friend in the past, but not in the future."

Methos seemed to be struggling with himself. He tried to roll away. "I'm sorry, I swore I wouldn't ... let me up, Mac, I'm being a bloody fool...."

Mac guessed what was not being said. "Methos, stop it, calm down." He pinned the other man down. "What's wrong with wanting affection?"

"Don't go all Oprah on me, MacLeod, I don't think I can stand that," Methos said with a touch of his usual acid.

"What should I do? Leap out of bed clutching the sheets to my virgin bosom because you might want more than a casual screw? Jesus, you really think a lot of me, don't you?"

Methos stared at him. "Yes, I do. More than I should, more than is safe."

MacLeod framed the thin face under him with his broad, swordsman's hands and kissed Methos on the lips long and sweetly before answering. "I know."

"You never said."

"I know. My biggest regret is that I forgot when Kronos came back. I forgot who you were, what you had done for me." Methos shivered. "It's all right. You're safe in my hands."

Methos moved as if in discomfort. "For how long, Mac? Until Amanda crooks her finger? Or I screw up again? Or you find out something else you don't like about me?" He closed the vibrant eyes that spoke so clearly of his thoughts, shutting Mac out. Mac just waited until they opened again.

"No, I swear that too. You've got me, as friend and as lover. I won't leave you alone again," he repeated. "No more drinking yourself into a stupor of grief, Methos. I promise. I owe you, I owe you more than I can possibly repay."

Methos made a concerted effort to escape, and, hurt, Mac let him get up. Methos moved back, his knees under his chin. "So this is just a debt settlement? Perhaps we should work out the Danegeld on your life and you can just pay that instead? Not as messy as being in my bed or in my life, and no ties either. I take cheque or VISA."

He got up, and Mac didn't try to stop him. "Methos, don't."

"MacLeod, forget I said anything. Thanks for the blowjob, do you want me to do anything for you?" The way Methos stood, his arms wrapped defensively around him, it was clear that touching MacLeod was the last thing he wanted to do.

Mac held his gaze steadily. "What I want is for you to stop pushing me away."

"I'm not," Methos said, dragging on his clothes from the day before, and carefully not looking at MacLeod. "Mac, I welcome your friendship, but let's leave it at that. I'm not into pity fucks, and I'm too old to pretend in bed any more. Do you want toast or brioche for breakfast?"

Mac got up, scooped up his clothes and swept past the other man on his way to the bathroom. "Neither." He slammed the door behind him.

He'd calmed down by the time he emerged, and Methos looked entirely composed, sitting on the throne chair, sipping from an oversize coffee cup. "Any left for me?" Mac asked.

"Help yourself." Mac poured himself a cup and looked at Methos. "This is the other reason I don't sleep with Immortals – I make an idiot of myself," Methos said self-deprecatingly, looking into his coffee as if the secrets of the Universe were stored there.

"You aren't an idiot, Methos. You're a human being. Like the rest of us, with the same wants and needs. Three years is a long time without a cuddle."

Methos winced. "There's that word again. Really, Mac, I'm fine. I just get foolish when I have mind blowing sex."

"Mind blowing?"

"Fishing for compliments?" At last, a real smile. "Sorry it wasn't great for you."

"We could try again some other time," Mac said lightly but Methos shook his head.

"Not a good idea, Mac. Let's leave things as they are. But thank you." His expression was soft. "Maybe I did need a cuddle."

"Any time." Mac checked his watch and put his cup down. "Look, I'd better be going. I'll see you around?"

"Sure." Methos' eyes were shuttered now.

"Soon," Mac said, with heavy emphasis. "I mean it, Methos."

Methos smiled again. "I know you do. Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod always keeps his word."

* * *

As Mac walked home to clean up, he knew the odd relationship between the oldest immortal and himself had changed, but whether for the better, he wasn't sure. They were no longer estranged as they had been, but it seemed to him that sex had raised another barrier between them. Glimpsing the loneliness of Methos' soul had saddened him – was that all that remained after a long life?

The aborted love-making fuelled an intensely powerful climax in the shower. It surprised him how his imagination had seized the images of Methos naked in bed and run with it. He had had several male lovers but he normally masturbated to the thoughts of Amanda, not Fitz. That morning, though, he couldn't get hazel eyes and pale skin out of his mind, and his hand itched for the feel of that long cock again. He wondered if he could ever persuade Methos that sex needn't necessarily be a bad thing for them.

But at least they were friends, and that was to be prized. He meant to keep his promise of being in touch soon, and when Joe called to say his band wasback from their two night gig in London and inviting Mac to hear a new group at Maurice's club that Monday, it was the opportunity he was looking for. He called Methos to ask him to dinner and then to the club. The old man accepted with a mixture of gratitude and surprise which told MacLeod he needed to work harder on rebuilding the trust between them.

He picked Methos up from his apartment. Funny how he'd never noticed before that Methos could look sexier in a grey sweater and tight black jeans than most men could in a tuxedo. Knowing his passion for seafood, Mac took him to a Chinese restaurant that specialised in it and was close to the jazz club. It was the perfect choice – just informal enough for easy conversation, fancy enough for the food to be an occasion in itself. "Haven't been here for ages," Methos said with a contented sigh. "And the new chef is much better than the old one – you couldn't get sea urchins then."

"You never did make me that dish," Mac replied.

"No – still, plenty of time for that." Methos lifted his eyes to look at Mac directly. "How are the nightmares?"

The concern touched MacLeod. "Settling. Haven't broken any more noses, at least." Methos looked at his plate and didn't comment. "You thought it was Kronos, didn't you? His Quickening?" Not a good idea to bring their friendly psycho up at dinner, but the thought had been bothering MacLeod ever since he worked it out.

"I thought it was possible, yes. Then I wondered if it was unconscious aggression about me killing Keane."

Mac brushed his hand against Methos in a carefully casual gesture. "No. I swear. I was remembering Culloden. Ask Amanda."

Methos returned the brief touch and smiled. "I believe you, Duncan. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that not everything is about me. How is Amanda, anyway? When is she coming back?"

Recognising the deliberate change of topic, MacLeod set out to entertain the old man with a description of Amanda's latest hijinks, and by the time he called for the bill, Methos was grinning. "Hey, half of that is mine," Methos protested as Mac slapped his credit card on the salver.

"Nope, my invite, my treat. You can pay next time."

"Okay – if you like MacDonald's." Mac laughed – 'Adam Pierson's' poverty was a running joke between them. He well knew Methos was comfortably well off, probably even filthy rich in a very discreet way.

Mellow and relaxed from the food and the wine, they walked companionably to the club where Joe and Maurice were waiting for them. The band was terrific, the young lead guitarist, a Hendrix in the making. Better than the music was watching Methos bob his head, grooving to the sounds of the electric guitar. Mac wondered if Methos had been a musician in a former existence, and decided it was highly likely.

An Immortal presence broke the mood in an instant but Mac was totally unprepared for the warm, welcoming grin that spread across Methos' face when he saw the newcomer. The source of his joy was a young, but not youthful man with a pasty, unhealthy complexion that even Immortality couldn't put right. Methos introduced Byron, and Mac and the musician bared teeth at each other. You couldn't call it smiling – the other man made the hackles on Mac's neck rise, and he had rarely felt such an instant and intense loathing for another person in his long life. The guy was just a creep, you could tell that from looking at him. Methos ignored the hostility between his two friends, still grinning like a loon.

Mike, the guitarist, was drawn immediately to Byron, abandoning Joe and the others as soon as the world famous rock idol was spotted. Joe watched the younger man drool and turned to Methos. "You mean to tell me you knew him all this time and you never told me?"

MacLeod chipped in "Yeah, _Doc_." The nickname bugged him, for some reason – everything about Byron bugged him.

Methos just gave him a knowing grin. "I have my secrets, guys, and you have yours."

"And what the hell does that mean?" Joe wanted to know.

"Hush, children – the show's about to start again." Methos sat back with a smug look on his face.

They were stuck with Byron until the end of the set and of the night's entertainment. MacLeod felt like walking out, but that would have been childish, and the reason ridiculous. Watching Methos act so star struck, talking to groupies and taking down phone numbers made his teeth ache, as did the constant smirk on the rock star's face. MacLeod couldn't restrain himself once Byron had swept off with his entourage in his stretch limo. "He's an arrogant son of a bitch," he announced to the world in general.

Methos was unaffected by his antagonism. "A lot of geniuses are. He's connected. He could make that kid's career with one phone call."

Mac didn't care – the guy was a waste of air so far as he was concerned. He stalked back to the Citröen, Methos trailing behind.

Once settled in the car, Methos challenged him over his hostility. "Okay, what's wrong, MacLeod? You've got that brooding look on your face which, I have to be honest with you, really makes you look like a Neanderthal."

"Speaking from personal experience, Methos? Anyway, better a Neanderthal than one of Nero's rejects – does the word 'debauched' mean anything to you?" He started the engine up and revved it unnecessarily.

"Gordon isn't anything like Nero's boyfriends, Mac," Methos said mildly. "I should know."

"Oh, and I suppose _that's_ from personal experience too, is it?"

"Maybe. Is it any of your business?"

MacLeod pulled back on his temper – Methos wasn't responsible for Byron or the effect he had on Mac. "Probably not. You want to come back to the barge for a night cap?"

"No – thanks. Just drop me back at the flat." They drove the short distance in uncomfortable silence. As Methos got out of the car, he looked sharply at Mac. "You want some advice, MacLeod? Try jumping in the Seine, and not floating on it when you get back. You need to cool off." He slammed the door and was inside his building before MacLeod could think of a cutting reply.

 _Brilliant, that had gone just so well_ , he reproached himself, briefly considering Methos' advice. He called Methos' flat as soon as he was back on board the barge.

"Pierson ici," Methos answered curtly.

"Methos, it's MacLeod. Look – I'm sorry. I just took a dislike to Byron. I can't explain it, and there was no excuse for what I said."

He heard Methos sigh. "It's all right, Mac. Gordon has that effect on people – I'd forgotten. Are you going to listen to Mike jam with Joe tomorrow?"

"Yeah – you want a lift?"

"That would be good. Thanks."

"Sleep well, Methos."

"You too, MacLeod," Methos replied, the warmth in his voice easing the tension in Mac. "Pleasant dreams."

 _Which would be of you, old man,_ Mac thought as he hung up. _Which would be of you._

* * *

MacLeod hoped that they had seen the last of Byron but the rock star's presence was still felt in the slight hesitancy Methos displayed around Mac, and then, more poisonously, in Mike's hyperactive, coke-sodden performance. That the kid's considerable talent could be obliterated overnight by a pampered, self-centred hedonist infuriated MacLeod and he barely noticed Methos' 'Wait, I'll come with you,' as he stormed out of the bar to confront the other Immortal at his apartment.

The warning he delivered to leave Mike alone appeared to roll right off the arrogant bastard. He was wasting his breath, he knew that, and he left the building in disgust. Methos began to argue with him the minute they got outside, pleading for understanding of Byron's creativity and his hunger. Mac didn't want to know – he had known geniuses, had taken artists as lovers, and none of them were as twisted as Byron, a point he made to Methos.

"And Byron is also a great artist. He's given the world great poetry," Methos said.

"But at what price?"

"You've closed your mind again, MacLeod," Methos said angrily. "When will you ever learn that your miserable four hundred years of life haven't told you anything about the creative mind?"

"Oh, and I suppose you're an expert, oh ancient one. At least I have better taste in friends," he said cuttingly.

"Present company excepted, I assume," Methos said, his eyes narrowed in anger. Or perhaps you don't consider us friends, since I have once again proved myself unworthy by association." Methos stalked away haughtily.

"Adam!" Mac called, barely remembering to be vaguely discreet.

"Fuck off," Methos called, not even turning around.

* * *

Things just got worse after that. Mike rounded on Joe and MacLeod angrily for interfering, and then the kid failed to turn up for the gig – so did Methos. Joe blamed himself, which MacLeod couldn't accept. There was one person responsible for this mess, he thought, and it wasn't Joe Dawson.

Byron's apartment was empty, and there was no security, somewhat to Mac's surprise. Mike Paladini's body lay like trash in the smashed up living room, his life over hours before Mac arrived. He felt a killing rage fill him, anger at an Immortal ending the all too brief life of a mortal, anger that it was _this_ Immortal – one who Methos called friend, yet – who had done it. Someone who could have nurtured creativity but who seemed to live only to destroy it.

He called Joe on his mobile and gave him the bad news. "Have you called the police?" Joe asked.

"No – I'm taking care of it."

"You can't, Mac – Byron's too well known. Let the police handle it."

"He's a menace, and unless I stop him, he's going to kill other mortals. Where's his concert tonight?"

Joe gave him the information reluctantly. "Mac – what about Adam?"

"What about him?" MacLeod answered gruffly.

"Look, Mac, I want this guy stopped as much as you do, but Byron's his friend. You sure you want to have this between the two of you?"

"It's too important to walk away from, Joe. Methos will have to deal with it - God knows Mike Paladini's family will." He hung up before Joe could remonstrate with him further.

The backstage security was a joke and he got inside easily. He wasn't surprised to sense the song of Methos' presence, guessing he'd have asked Joe what MacLeod had planned. Mac was ready for a fight – but he hadn't Methos' naked begging for Byron's life. Still, Methos had no excuses for Byron's behaviour and his appeal to Mac's love of art sounded, to MacLeod's ears, like clutching at straws. MacLeod didn't want to hear it. Did Methos think he was insensible to what he was about to do? What about Mike? Methos hadn't seen the kid's body, the cold skin, the arm still bulging from the tourniquet, holding the bottle of booze like a comforter. The boy was younger than Richie, for God's sake!

Methos let him pass, silently admitting defeat and Mac went to dispense the justice that only one Immortal could bring to another. The spirit of the fight astonished him, and he had to admire Byron's way of evening the odds, even if being shot in the foot hurt like fuck. When the battle was over, the power of the Quickening took Mac by surprise - he wouldn't have put Byron down as a hunter, but it was clear he had taken a lot more heads than his crippled, undersized body should have merited. All of Byron's pain, all the roiling creativity, his blazing self-loathing burned through MacLeod's body, finally leaving him curiously depressed and flat in spirit, without the usual burst of energy a Quickening brought him.

He couldn't meet Methos' eyes when he entered the jazz club, and he wasn't sure if it was relief or disappointment he saw on Joe's face. Methos poured himself a drink, but not one for him. Mac decided to chance it, slinging his coat over a chair at Methos' table and getting a glass.

"Matter and antimatter. Byron knew that, too," Methos said suddenly. _What the hell does he mean by that?_ Mac sat down and poured out a whiskey. Methos still wouldn't look at him. "His life had become one long tragedy."

Now that, MacLeod could agree with. "We all know how those end." Methos drank from his glass and turned his body away from him, looking into space, his expression grim.

Joe played in the background for a while as the two Immortals drank in silence, Methos more than Mac. A lot more – soon they had to replace the bottle. Eventually Joe packed up his guitar and stumped over to them.

"Time to go home, guys."

Methos was still doing his 'see nothing, hear nothing' act. "I'll lock up, Joe. Maurice won't mind." Joe's eyes drifted from Mac to Methos, and he looked dubious. "It'll be okay," Mac said softly.

Joe nodded. "Set the alarm, or the boss'll kill me."

"I will. Good night, Joe."

Joe switched off most of the lights as he left, leaving the other two in a comfortable gloom. Mac sipped more of the excellent scotch. Methos drank his like water, and poured another hefty slug, his hands shaking and nearly spilling the bottle. Mac grabbed it and set it upright. Methos looked at him then and gave him a brief, embarrassed smile, before his grim expression returned.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mac asked quietly.

"What'd I forget this time?" Methos retorted, slurring his words.

"That Byron was your lover, not just your friend."

Methos shrugged exaggeratedly. "What diff'rence did it make, Mac? He's dead."

"You know why I had to kill him."

Methos gulped back the Scotch in his glass and poured another unsteadily. "Yup. Naughty ole Gordon, bad boy. Duncan the Immortal P'liceman's gonna take you down town and learn you a lesson."

"Methos, you're drunk."

Methos squinted. "Nope – can't say it. You're still not ugly, not on the outside anyway." He peered into his glass, tilting it back and forth. A little of the liquor splashed out. "Ooops. Bad Methos. Gonna get a smack from the p'liceman." He looked at Mac. "So, you gonna punish me again, Duncan?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Methos? And put that down, you've had enough." He made a grab for the glass, but Methos clutched it to himself in a jerk, spilling most of the whiskey down his front. "Now look what you've done."

"Bad Methos," the old man mumbled. "Here, give me a smack." He held out his wrist, and Mac held it.

"Come on, Methos. Let me take you home." He put a hand on Methos' shoulder, but he shrugged it off violently.

"Contr'y to pop'lr b'lief, Mac, killing my old boyfriend s'not foreplay." Methos looked at him lopsidedly, his distaste clear. MacLeod kept his temper under check.

"I'm just offering you a ride home, Methos. You go out like that, someone will take your head."

"At least you can't," Methos muttered. " 'M all right." He stood up and swayed dangerously.

"Sure you are. Just let me get you home." Methos was much too drunk to put up a fight, and Mac hauled him bodily out of the club, propping him up against a wall to lock up and set the alarm. Methos had slumped to the ground when he looked around again. "Bloody hell, Methos – who normally looks after you when you get like this?"

"Normally don't," Methos muttered. "You bring out the best in me, Dunkie."

 _Even pissed out of his mind, he's got a tongue like a scalpel,_ MacLeod thought bitterly. He hoped Methos wouldn't throw up in his car, but he just sat quietly, if bonelessly, as MacLeod drove through the empty streets and pulled up outside Methos' building. Before he could get to the other side, Methos had already fumbled the car door open and sprawled out onto the pavement. "Jesus Christ, Methos, you're a lousy drunk," MacLeod complained loudly as he tried to pick him up. The old bastard wasn't exactly a lightweight.

"I'm an excel'... _ex'lent_ drunk, you Scottish prick," Methos said indignantly. "Put me down."

Mac was very tempted to do just that, but if he did, he suspected Methos would just curl up and go to sleep. Biting his tongue, he manhandled Methos into the building and into the antiquated lift, struggling against Methos attempts to prevent him closing the gate. The second he got them inside Methos' flat, the old man made a beeline for the drinks cabinet. "Oh no you don't, Methos. Coffee."

"Fuck off, fuckwit," Methos said, then giggled. "Hey, poetry isn't dead!"

"No, but you will be if you keep drinking. Sit there and keep still." MacLeod shoved the sot into the throne chair and dared him with a look to move a muscle.

"Yes, sir," Methos slurred, but Mac decided he probably wouldn't move. He put the kettle on and went back out to look at Methos who had slithered off the chair onto the floor in the minute he was out of the room.

"What the hell are you doing down there?" Mac asked in exasperation, bending to help him up. Methos stared up at him with reddened eyes.

"Lost something."

"What? Your pen?" Mac looked around to see what he'd dropped.

"No, a friend." Methos continued to stare at him, and as MacLeod watched, tears dripped out of the wide open eyes. Methos made no attempt to wipe them away. Mac knelt down, stricken by conscience and sorrow for his friend's pain.

"I'm sorry, Methos. I know it hurts. But he wanted to die." He took Methos' hands in his. They felt cold as ice.

"Not Byron. You, Duncan. You." The tears continued to fall, utterly soundlessly, every drop like acid on Mac's heart. He pulled the unresisting man close.

"You haven't lost me, Methos. I thought I had lost you. You probably hate me after tonight."

"Can't hate you. Tried that. Didn't work," Methos said, his voice muffled against Mac's sweater. Despite himself, MacLeod grinned at the idea of Methos trying to work up a good lasting hate against him. "Mac, I didn't love him."

"It's all right, Methos. He was your friend – that was enough." He was shocked to find his sweater fisted in both of Methos' hands, and his face pulled close to Methos' so he could smell the whiskey breath.

"No. It wasn't enough. Not for me. Not for him. He didn't know about love. I know 'bout love," he said.

"Oh yes, and what do you know?" Mac said, putting one hand behind Methos' head and urging the drunken man to rest against him.

"Hurts like fuck," Methos said solemnly.

Mac raised Methos' face up. "Not all the time, Methos. It doesn't have to hurt all the time."

"Does for me," Methos said belligerently. "Does for you."

He stroked away a tear that lingered on one unshaven cheek. "Not all the time," he repeated. "Byron cared about you, Methos."

Methos snorted, then sneezed. "Gordon didn't care about anyone, anything, Mac. Selfish, hungry, angry bastard of a bloody genius. I missed him a lot, MacLeod. He was fun. Espec'ly the goat."

"The goat? I don't think I want to know about the goat." He could tell Methos was past the point where coffee would do anything but delay the sleep he needed. "Come on, old man. Let's get you to bed."

"Mac, stay. Stay with me," Methos pleaded, still holding tight onto Mac's sweater and refusing to get up until he had his answer.

"Yes, Methos. I'll stay. Stand up." He managed to walk Methos the short distance to the wide bed and dropped him heavily onto it. Methos lay sprawled on the silk coverlet.

"Mac, 'm too tired to fuck you," he said, proving it with a yawn. "Let you fuck me, though. Owe you one." His voice disappeared into another prodigious yawn.

"Nobody's fucking anyone, Methos. You need some sleep and so do I." To tell the truth, Methos' words had reawakened his post-Quickening erection, but he would no more take a drunk man than he would rape a woman. He left Methos where he was for a minute or two while he cleaned his teeth and used the loo. When he returned, Methos was curled up, apparently asleep. Sighing, Mac got Methos' shoes off, and with a bit of effort, the coat and sweater too. The jeans looked way too tight for comfort so he decided to remove them, which woke Methos up.

"Get your hands off me, sir," he slurred. "Nobody undresses me without my p'mission."

"Fine, do it yourself."

Mac waited as Methos struggled and then looked up at him disarmingly. "Um, I'm stuck." He actually batted his lashes at him, the old flirt.

"You sure are, silly old sod." Deftly he stripped off the denim garment and rolled the drunken lump on the coverlet aside long enough to drag him under the sheets. Then he stripped down to T-shirt and briefs. Methos didn't have a couch long enough to sleep on, and besides, in his book, an invitation to stay meant in a proper bed. It wasn't his fault that Methos didn't have a spare room. He pulled the other Immortal into his arms, thought regretfully that Methos would probably snore his head off because of the booze, and fell asleep.

* * *

He slept solidly all the way through until late morning, when he awoke alone in the bed. He felt Methos' presence, and lifting his head, saw him reading a newspaper at his dining table, his head resting on one hand. Methos was showered, shaved, and dressed in fresh clothes. "Uh, morning," he said, wondering what the response would be.

"Hi. Want some coffee, or a shower first?"

He discreetly sniffed himself and realised he smelt disgusting – he should have showered before he collapsed into bed last night. "A wash – um, can I borrow ...?"

"In the bathroom. Clean towels are out too." Methos' tone was calm, rather impersonal, and Mac could make nothing of it. He slid out of the bed and hastened into the modern bathroom. It was nice to have a long shower without worrying about running out of hot water, and he pinched some of Methos' expensive shampoo, washing off the sweat and Byron's blood. Methos was lucky not to have thrown up, waking with a hangover next to him smelling like an abattoir, Mac thought grimly. Methos had found him some largish sweats to wear, and even a pair of fresh boxers. He came out and looked at Methos, who regarded him thoughtfully.

"I'm assuming you stayed because I asked you to, or needed you to, Mac, but I have to warn you, I don't remember anything about last night."

"I killed Byron," Mac admitted, thinking it was better to get that out of the way.

"Anything except for that, of course," Methos said coolly. "There's coffee there, and some croissants. They're reasonably fresh – I picked them up yesterday."

Mac got his breakfast together in silence, buttering the croissants and putting some of the apricot conserve on them that he found in the fridge. He bore his plate and cup over to the table. "Are you angry with me?" he asked Methos.

"No." Methos looked down at his paper, and ignored him until he finished eating, then rose and poured them both fresh cups of coffee. "So, do you want to tell me if I did anything terribly embarrassing last night? Make a pass at you? Kill someone I shouldn't have?"

"No, Methos. You just got drunk, I brought you home. You asked me to stay, so I did. Nothing else happened."

"Good. I don't think that would be appropriate in the circumstances." He tapped the paper. "The news is full of Byron's death. A mystery man seen leaving the concert hall."

"Have they got a description?"

"Nothing useful. You took a hell of a risk, MacLeod."

Mac's temper bridled up. "Yeah, well, at least I'm still alive, unlike Mike."

"Or Byron."

"So what is this, Methos? Is this the end of us? You can't get over the death of your former lover? Just tell me straight and I'll get out of your hair."

Methos continued to look at him coolly. "Really, Duncan. You were pretty snippy with me over Kristen, and you didn't even _like_ her. Forgive me for spending an hour or two mourning the passing of someone I knew and liked for nearly two hundred years."

"God knows why," MacLeod muttered, unable to hold back the comment.

"You want to know why, Highlander?" Methos asked angrily. "Byron was my _student_ , I taught him everything he knew. I liked him – I knew him before he became Immortal, I loved his poetry, I loved the fact he relished life, even for a short time. And he was a damn good fuck, if you must know."

Mac flushed with embarrassment and not a little anger. "I better go," he muttered, not wanting another argument. He realised he would have to change back into his dirty clothes, but taking Methos' sweats away might be construed as taking a further liberty.

"Oh, Christ," Methos said with disgust. "Sit down and drink your bloody coffee, Mac, and stop being an old queen. You get into moods over far less than this, and I don't walk out on you. I've got a hangover, I just lost a friend, I wake up next to you when I could have sworn I said we shouldn't do that again. Just give me some time to adjust."

"You said you'd lost me last night," Mac said.

Methos looked at him with a twinkle of amusement. "You – how could I lose you? You're like old chewing gum. You certainly smelt like it this morning."

"That was your fault for doing your India rubber man impersonation last night. You're a disgusting drunk, did you know that?"

"Well, I only do it once or twice a century. Byron weaned me off it - doing drugs with him would turn anyone off being intoxicated."

"Pity Mike Paladini didn't get that far," Mac said bitterly. "Anything about him in the paper?"

Methos stared at him. "Yes, as a matter of fact there is. Mike was 22, MacLeod. That makes him an adult in every jurisdiction I can think of. And Joe told me the little shit was less than polite to him about trying to help. Sounds like he paid the price of stupidity."

Mac slammed his fist down on the table. "Byron put the drugs in front of him, I bet he made it a condition of being accepted into his circle, and Mike was just a kid!"

"And he paid the price of his mistake."

"Yeah, well. So did Byron."

Methos stood up and walked to the window, saying nothing for a long time. "Mac, did you kill Gordon over Mike – or over me?"

"What?"

Methos turned. "You heard me. I saw you – you hated Gordon the second you laid eyes on him. I think you decided to kill him before Mike ever even spoke to him."

"Bullshit, Methos!" Mac was losing his temper fast. _I really should leave,_ he thought. But Methos was implacable, demanding an answer. "He killed a mortal."

"He helped a mortal die, not quite the same thing. Yes, he was negligent, yes, he was selfish and careless, and yes, he was playing fast and loose with the weak-minded. I know all that. I spoke to him before the concert, told him you were coming and to get out of town. He refused. I could have stopped you, but I didn't. Gordon wanted to die, maybe he even had to die. My question is – why did _you_ have to be the instrument?"

Methos' tone was calm, even clinical, and Mac found himself shrinking back under the even gaze of those intelligent, oh so very ancient eyes. "Someone had to be."

"But why did that someone have to be you, MacLeod? I mean, I could understand it if you were the least bit consistent, but you aren't. You let one murderer go because she's a woman, and kill another because he slept with me over a hundred years ago."

"Jesus, Methos! That's not the reason!"

The old eyes just kept up their disconcerting gaze. "What is the reason? Why not Kristen, why Byron? Why Ingrid, why not Kristen?" More softly, "Why Byron, and why not me?"

MacLeod shook his head to clear it of Methos' accusing voice. "I can't kill you, and you know why."

"Now you can't, sure. But you could have let Cassandra take my head - you could have killed me outside my hotel in Seacouver. Should have killed me according to your logic. But you didn't. Why, MacLeod?"

To hell with borrowed clothes, he could post them back. "Fuck you, Methos." He grabbed up his own and walked out of the flat. He swore he heard 'you had your chance, Highlander,' float softly down the stairs after him.

 

* * *

The quarrel was too serious for glib apologies from either of them, and MacLeod knew he needed to cool down. The hell of it was that Methos had been too accurate with some of his jibes, and Mac cringed at the idea of subjecting himself to another tongue lashing. He kept a low profile for a week or two, even avoiding Joe, until the exasperated Watcher sought him out on the barge.

"Okay, MacLeod, what the hell is going on with you and the old man? He keeps coming into the bar dripping enough acid to refinish the floor, and you're doing an Agatha Christie on me. Is this about Byron?"

"In a way. It's private, Joe." Mac poured himself a scotch, and Joe frowned.

"Bit early in the day for you, isn't it, Mac?"

"What's your point, Dawson? You sell alcohol for a living, don't go all puritan on me." Joe poked him in the chest with his cane.

"That's unfair, Duncan MacLeod and you know it. Now if it's none of my beeswax, then okay, I'll go. But I warned you that killing Byron might come between you and Methos. You get it fixed, Mac. This is your doing. Methos was just trying to protect a friend. Don't shut him out for it."

"He's the one shutting me out," Mac said automatically, stung by the accusation.

Joe looked at him thoughtfully. "You sure, Mac? Cos' that's not how I'm seeing it. Methos has never shut you out, not even after Kronos. He's been there all the time."

"And you call yourself a Watcher," MacLeod said bitterly. "Joe, leave it alone. It'll sort itself out."

Joe stood up. "All right – but I don't want to be writing up your final reports one of these days because one of you took the other's stubborn fool head."

Mac had to grin. "Joe – that's the last thing you need to worry about. Look – it'll be okay. I just need some space, and so does he. Give me a week – a month even. Okay?"

"Okay, MacLeod. But don't leave it too long."

But MacLeod didn't have that month – he barely had the week. Richie turned up the following day, and Mac took the time to re-establish relations with his protégé, dragging a protesting kid to the opera for a little cultural exposure. Returning that evening, they met an elderly man telling a strange tale, and so began a nightmare that made the quarrel with Methos seem like a soft breeze on a summer's day. MacLeod was told unlikely tales of prophecy, a young and beautiful girl died as did the old man, and he began to be haunted by his enemies and by the dead, to the bewilderment and fear of his friends who regarded his irrational behaviour as the unmistakable signs that he was losing it.

Methos came by one evening, but whatever he had wanted evaporated as soon as MacLeod announced he had just seen Kronos. MacLeod walked away to look for his dead foe, and Methos left. The next time he saw him, it was in the company of Joe. Both men were clearly worried for his mental health, and he thought sourly that it was only justice that the only person they could turn to for help, the only person who could have told them that he was quite sane, was Sean Burns, dead at MacLeod's own hands.

Their visit was interrupted by a call from Richie, saying he had just seen Horton going into the old racetrack. And the nightmare, impossible though it seemed, got worse.

* * *

When it was over, MacLeod prayed for amnesia. If he couldn't go back and undo Richie's murder, he wanted to forget every single thing that happened that evening, from Joe and Methos offering him help, to Methos refusing to take his head. He did nothing melodramatic when he returned to the barge, like trash the place or drink himself into a stupor. He simply sat. Not crying, not thinking, not hallucinating. Duncan MacLeod, for all intents and purposes, shut down. There were things too terrible for grief, and he was long past the point where mere tears held any meaning or comfort for him.

He felt the approach of an Immortal presence – he wasn't catatonic, God didn't offer him that sort of mercy – and there was a dim hope that it was a Challenge that he would gladly give in to. But it was only Methos. The older immortal looked pale and tired – _well, he would,_ MacLeod thought. _He's just ...._ "You took Richie away?" he asked calmly – he felt so fucking calm.

Methos looked startled. "Yes, after I took Joe home. How are you feeling?" he asked carefully.

"I'm okay, Methos. I'm not injured." Methos came and sat next to him. "Richie's dead," he said solemnly.

Methos took his hand – how hot the old man's skin felt on his. "Yes, I know. Do you remember what happened?"

"I was fighting Horton and Kronos and Richie, only it wasn't them, it was Ahriman. And then it wasn't Ahriman. It was Richie." A single sob. _Where did that come from?_ He wasn't crying. "I forgot, Methos."

"What did you forget, Duncan?" Methos asked gently. He liked Methos calling him Duncan. He remembered that.

"I forgot you couldn't take my head. I should have asked Joe." His hand was suddenly held in a painful grip. "Methos," he said reasonably. "You're hurting me."

"You can't ask Joe to do that," Methos said tightly. "He's very upset right now. You mustn't hurt him any more."

"Okay. You'll look after him?"

"Yes, and I'll look after you as much as I can."

MacLeod was puzzled. "I'm okay, Methos. You don't need to look after me. Joe's a mortal, he needs you."

"I think you need someone, too." Methos was stroking his hand. "How long since you've had a good night's sleep?"

"Don't sleep much these days," he confessed. He got off all right, but he kept being woken up by Kronos or Horton, irritating bastards. Very annoying.

"I can see that. I could help you get some sleep, if you like."

"That would be nice."

Methos stood up, still holding his hand. "Come over to the bed."

Mac resisted. "Not the bed, Methos."

"Okay, not the bed. Lie down here then, and I'll get you some blankets."

He did as he was told but as Methos moved off, he gripped the hand of the other man. "Methos, don't leave me."

"I won't, I'm just getting the blankets. Two seconds, I promise." He accepted that and true to his word Methos was right back, and settling the warmth over him.

"Where are you going to sleep, Methos?"

"Right here next to you, Duncan. Let me take your shoes off." He let Methos undo his shoes. He remembered doing that for someone himself not that long ago. "Shall I take that?"

 _What's he talking about?_ Methos held his right hand in his own, and in his hand.... "No, I have to keep it," he said politely.

"That's all right, love. Now I'm going to give you something to help you sleep, and I'm going to be right here to keep you safe. All you have to do is rest."

"Okay." He waited patiently while Methos filled the syringe from a glass vial and injected him with it. "You called me 'love'."

Methos smiled and rubbed the injection spot before carefully rolling down Mac's sleeve, and settling himself on the floor. "Because that's what you are. You're my love, Duncan."

"S'nice," he said sleepily. Methos' hand was warm against his cheek. "Richie's dead," he said quietly.

"I know, Duncan." Hand stroking his cheek, his own skin feeling cool and damp.

"Richie's dead."

"Yes, I know. Go to sleep, Duncan. You need to sleep." He closed his eyes and obeyed the gentle voice.

* * *

When he woke, he was stiff and sore. His hand felt cramped, and his neck was aching. Methos' dark head was pillowed on his chest, and the long body was twisted awkwardly on the floor. _What a peculiar way to sleep,_ MacLeod thought, _and why does my hand hurt?_ He brought it out from under the cover and saw the blood-covered glove, and the evening's events returned in a rush. All the air left his lungs in a sobbing breath, and his head felt like it would explode. "Richie...." Now he had started to cry, the tears would not stop. He pulled his hand free from Methos' sleeping grasp to jam it in his mouth to stop the sound.

"Duncan, it's all right, let it out," he heard Methos' soft baritone say, and then his hand was pulled away from his face. He tried to turn away from the sympathetic gaze, but Methos wouldn't let him. "No, Duncan, don't. Don't hide. Let me help." Methos pulled him close as he sobbed, rocking him gently.

"I killed Richie ... he's dead. I loved him, Methos."

"I know, Duncan. It was an accident."

MacLeod struggled to get free of the other man's embrace. "It was murder!" he screamed into the sweater-clad chest. "I killed him! I deserve to die!" He kept fighting until Methos slapped him and shook him.

"Duncan, stop it! You don't deserve to die, and no one's going to kill you. You weren't yourself last night."

"It was Kronos, and Horton, Methos – they were there. They've been here for weeks."

"Yes, I know you think that, Duncan, but this isn't doing you any good. You're not sleeping, and you're not thinking straight."

"It's real," he insisted.

Methos held him close again. "Yes, I know it feels that way, but there are no demons. It's all a myth."

He struggled again, and Methos let him up, still keeping a hand on him. "You're wrong, Methos."

"I could be, Mac, I've been wrong before. All I know is that right now, you're in no shape to do anything or fight anyone. And right now, you need something to eat, and, I would predict, about twelve more hours' sleep." _Methos could be right,_ Mac thought. He felt tired to his very core. He sat down again and looked up at his friend. "Duncan, just lie down again. I'm going to go and get us some breakfast, and a change of clothes. I'll be half an hour at the most. Stay here, and don't let anyone onto the boat."

"In case I kill them? I left my sword...." He swallowed. He'd left his sword at the racetrack, still covered in his young student's blood.

"No, in case they kill you, you big doofus. Now lie down."

"Now I'm a doofus," he grumbled. "What happened to 'love'?"

"That's night-time talk. I'll be back as soon as I can."

MacLeod closed his eyes.

* * *

_He found himself standing in the middle of the barge, and his hand no longer hurt because he no longer held Richie's glove in it. "Looking for something, Mac?"_

_He whirled. "Richie!" The boy was grinning and looked completely healthy._

_"Who else? You looked kinda spooked there."_

_"I thought I killed you, Rich ... I saw you lying on the ground, with your head ...."_

_Richie laughed. "Oh, Mac, you've been seeing all sorts of crazy things lately."_

_"That's right, he has," another voice came from behind him. Kronos._

_"You're dead," Mac told him. "None of this is real."_

_"Are you sure, Highlander? Seems to me you've picked a pretty poor guide to tell you about reality. Methos never could tell the truth," Kronos said seductively._

_"You're dead, you're the lie."_

_Richie was now standing next to Kronos, and the painted warrior made the younger man kneel. "Fine, then you won't mind if I kill the boy?" Kronos swung his sword. Richie's head fell, spraying blood all over the walls, and all over MacLeod. The boy's body fell with a sickening thump to the deck._

_"Noooo!" Mac screamed and flung himself at Kronos. He needed his sword, and there it was, on the coffee table. He seized it up and swung. Kronos laughed._

* * *

"Duncan!" his hand was held, and suddenly the sword, Richie's body and the blood were all gone. "Mac, stop it!" He was swung around to face a puzzled Methos. "There's nothing there, calm down."

"He was here, Methos," he said hoarsely. "Richie was here, and Kronos ... Kronos killed him again!"

"Kronos isn't here, never was here," Methos said firmly. "Come and sit down. Hell, you're shivering. Lie down." Methos covered him up with the blankets, and felt his forehead for good measure. "You're so cold, Duncan - what did you do, go for a swim?"

"They were really here, Methos," he mumbled.

"If you say so, Mac. Lie still, I'm going to give you another shot."

Mac seized his hand. "No, wait ...."

"Duncan, you need to sleep," Methos said reasonably, making no move to free himself from the punishing grip.

"Yes, I know. I want you to tell me – is Joe all right?"

"Yes – I called him from my flat. He's upset, Mac, you know he must be, but he's okay. Worried like hell about you."

Mac tried to smile. "I'm worried about me. Methos, you won't leave me again, will you?"

Methos bent and kissed him. "No, love, I'll be right here." Mac still held his hand. "What?"

"Don't leave your sword near me. Don't let any weapons anywhere near me. If I come after you, you run like crazy, okay?"

Methos grinned. "That is the most unnecessary instruction you have ever given anyone, MacLeod. Can I have my hand back?" Mac let it go. "Why don't I take the glove?" He was already gently prying open Mac's hand.

"Keep it safe, Methos?"

"Of course." He laid the gory object aside reverently, then rolled up Mac's sleeve. MacLeod watched him carefully inject his arm.

"Methos, do you forgive me?"

"For Richie? That wasn't your fault...."

"No, for Byron. I'm so sorry, Methos. So sorry ...." His voice away as the drug began to work. Methos' hand rested gently on his forehead.

"Already forgiven. Now close your eyes and sleep, I'll be here."

* * *

It was dark when he woke, nearly ten in the evening. Methos was reading quietly in the armchair next to the sofa, and noticed immediately Mac's eyes were open. "How do you feel?"

"Hungry." He rubbed his chin. "Need a shower and a shave." Methos stood up.

"Good idea, I'll join you."

"Don't trust me with sharp objects?"

Methos gave him a sharp look. "Mac, something or someone is messing with your head and trying to hurt you. So, no, I don't trust you with razors or glass or anything that can be turned into a weapon against you."

"So you do believe in Ahriman?"

The hope died at Methos' kind, patient look. "I believe you believe. Duncan, you're asking the wrong man here. You won't get answers from me."

"Then where do I get them?" Mac cried in despair. He had been hoping that with Methos' vast experience, he might be able to help, but that hope was still born. Methos pulled him up, and into his arms.

"Let's have that shower, and we can talk about it after. I have a couple of ideas."

Methos' drug was still in his system; and he felt spaced out. The pain of Richie's death was like a constant throb but the urge to weep was, for now, dulled. He let Methos strip him, and waited patiently while the other man got undressed. "You could just watch, you know," he said.

"And where's the fun in that? I need to bathe too." Methos ran the water to the proper temperature and stepped under the spray, holding out a hand to MacLeod. He took Methos into his arms.

"Damn, Methos, I've wanted you with me but not like this." Methos reached for the shower gel and began to soap them both down as he talked.

"You will get through this, Mac, like you got through Tessa's death, and Little Deer's and all the others. I know it hurts, and I won't even pretend I know what's happening to you, but I do know this. You will survive."

"Wisdom from the world's oldest man?" The jibe fell flat.

"Wisdom from the world's oldest survivor, Mac. Don't give up. You can get through even this."

"I loved him and he's dead," Mac said, the tears returning in a rush. "I killed him."

"Everyone dies, Duncan. Richie died. You didn't mean to kill him, but he's dead and there is nothing we can do about it. If you die, who will remember him?"

"Joe."

"Joe's a mortal. Fifty, sixty years at the most, and then who will remember Richie? Who will remember Tessa and Joe for that matter?" Methos gripped his face and made Mac look at him. "You live, Duncan. You grow stronger and you fight another day. Self-pity is useless. Now wash yourself, you don't need a nurse."

Methos hustled him through the shower, and watched him carefully as he shaved but did not offer to do it for him. MacLeod found his appetite was banging hard on his brain, and he was relieved to find Methos had prepared a stew, and bought some crusty bread. Mac was slightly ashamed that he could eat so heartily considering what he had done, but he did not dare express that to Methos. Finally satiated, and feeling less likely to float away, he pushed the plate aside. "You had some ideas?"

"Yes." Methos explained. Holy ground was the first place to start, to give Mac time to regroup, even if that didn't free him from his visions. "I know a place in Malaysia, a monastery. You might find their mediations and instructions helpful. I know I did."

"You?"

"You think you're the only one to start seeing and hearing things? You think you're the only person who's ever done something they can't live with?" Methos said sharply. "There's one thing, though – the Watchers can't know about this place. It's a refuge we need."

"They know about us?"

Methos nodded. "I told them. Mac – no Watchers means not even telling Joe. Could you handle that?"

"If it makes me safer for me to be around, yeah. You'll look after him?"

"You know I will. So what do you think?"

Mac considered. It was all happening too fast, but if he stayed, who knew what he might do – who he might kill this time. "I think it's got to be worth a try. And the sooner I go, the better. I'll need to check flights."

"Already done. You could fly tomorrow." Methos looked at him consideringly. "Do you think you're up to it?"

"No – but I will be. I need to pack."

"That's already done too – you just need to confirm your flight reservations."

"Are you trying to get rid of me, Methos?"

His friend touched his cheek and smiled. "Not in the least, Mac. I'm trying to speed the day when you will be yourself again. It won't be easy with you gone, but it is necessary. There is no one in this country who can help you."

"You mean now Sean's dead?" Mac said bitterly. Methos just bowed his head in acknowledgement of a hard fact. "Methos – what about the flight? What if I start to hallucinate in mid-air?"

"Ah, well, I've got that covered. That sedative seems to work well on you, so I've got it in tablet form. It's only Valium. You should sleep right through." Methos took his hand again, and began to stroke it slowly with his thumb. "Duncan, I'll fly with you if you want. I could be there and back in a day and a half."

Mac was sorely tempted but finally he shook his head. "No. Joe needs you. Has...?" He choked and cleared his throat, willing himself to speak calmly. "What about the funeral?"

"Joe wants to arrange a graveside service." Methos' voice became even more gentle. "Mac, he'll expect you to be there but...."

"....It's not a good idea, I know. Methos – will you be with him? Stay with him?"

"You keep asking that. Joe's my friend, I won't abandon him."

"I'm abandoning him," MacLeod said bitterly. Methos cupped his face in his long hands.

"No, you aren't. You're going somewhere to get well, to fight this thing. Joe needs you in sound mind and body a lot more than he needs you to hold his hand. I know he'll understand, and if he doesn't, I'll make him."

Mac nodded, and Methos stroked his hair. Mac thought he could drown in those warm hazel eyes, so full of love and concern. "I don't deserve you," he said in a choked voice.

Methos just smiled and leaned in to kiss him. "Now, I've warned the monks you're coming, and I'll arrange for someone to collect you. You'll be in safe hands, nothing you do will surprise or shock them."

"But who will protect them from me?" he asked, suddenly anxious.

Methos stroked his hair. "Mac, these guys have been handling semi-crazy Immortals for a long time. You don't need to worry about them."

"And Ahriman?"

Methos winced. "Forget about Ahriman for the moment, Duncan. Concentrate on getting past your grief over Richie, and settling the demons in here," he said, tapping Mac's chest. "The rest, you deal with when you get back. If you're this ...champion, it'll keep."

Methos made the confirmation of the flight, leaving at seven the next morning, and MacLeod really did have nothing more to do. "I should call Joe."

Methos took his hand. "Ordinarily I would agree with you, but Duncan, he's ... put it this way, he's pretty confused about you at the moment. Why don't you let me explain it to him?"

"He hates me," Mac said. "I suppose that's only to be expected."

"No, he doesn't hate you. He's afraid – for you, of you, of this ... whatever it is. We all are. He and Richie were close, you know that. Give him some time, give yourself some time."

"All the burden is falling on you," Mac said sadly.

"Not at all. You have the greatest battle of all of us, and I need you to come back in good health. So does Joe."

Mac looked at his watch – it was midnight, and he had slept too much to sleep again. "Why don't you rest and I'll watch over you?" he suggested, knowing Methos had had an uncomfortable night of it.

Methos shook his head. "I'm fine – I'll sleep after the taxi collects you. It's only four hours away. What would you like to do?"

If this were Amanda, and it was any other time, Mac would have had no trouble passing the hours, but he couldn't think of anything he wanted to do less than make love right now. "I feel I should be doing something ... you know, for Richie." He stumbled over the name. "Or Joe."

"Duncan, it's the middle of the night. Time for all of us to be quiet and rest. Come and sit here." Methos patted the seat next to him on the sofa and Mac joined him there.

"Would you get annoyed if I mentioned the 'C' word?" he asked diffidently.

Methos smiled. "Only if you don't let me do it – come here." He rested his head on Methos' broad chest, and Methos' arms came around him, encircling him in strength and warmth. Mac felt heavy with grief and with shame, but the prospect of finding an answer to the visions and dreams which had been plaguing him gave him hope he hadn't expected. Methos would look after Joe, he had promised, and when Mac returned, he hoped he would be able to be a true friend to Joe, and to Methos. If he couldn't – then he could never return.

They didn't talk, and Mac lay against his friend's body, letting himself be petted gently, Methos' breath whooshing in and out of his ancient lungs a strangely reassuring sound. He had so many things he wanted to say to Methos, but none of them were important now. None of them important enough to disturb this all too rare and precious peace.

The taxi's horn aroused them. Methos had dozed, but woke as Mac got up. "Already?" he asked.

"Yes. Why don't you get some more sleep?" but Methos was already standing up, wiping his eyes and looking to see if Mac had got everything.

"Are you ready to go?" Methos asked. Mac took him in his arms and kissed the sleepy face.

"Yes, I am, thanks to you. You look after Joe, and I will come back. I promise."

"Then it's a certainty. Remember, Highlander...."

"Yeah, live, grow stronger, blah, blah, blah." He couldn't keep up the lightness, his throat was getting tight with tears. "You keep your head, Methos."

"And you, Duncan MacLeod."

Methos watched him leave from the gangway, a still, slight figure in the moonlight, a guardian against the night.

* * *

It took a year before he felt he could return to Paris, laying aside his grief and guilt and pain to engage in the greater battle. To his relief, Ahriman had left him alone while he was at the monastery. He flew back to Europe, found the barge was still moored near Notre Dame, and apart from being locked up, looked much as he had left it. He had arrived back in time for the anniversary of Richie's death and knew where he would find Joe and Methos. To his surprise, only his Watcher was by Richie's grave, reproachful of Mac's long silence, which puzzled him, since he assumed Methos would have told him what he was doing. There was no time to reflect – Ahriman reappeared at the cemetery, and Mac knew he had only had a respite. The battle was now joined.

He went to Methos' flat on his way to the barge, and was disappointed to find the place had been re-let. Where was Monsieur Pierson? he asked the elderly landlady. Oh, the English gentleman left nearly a year ago. He wrote and told her to have his things put in storage, paid her three months' rent and gave his notice. A terrible shame – good tenants were so hard to find. Did she have a forwarding address? No, she very much regretted she did not, and there was a pile of mail for him, if Monsieur MacLeod ever located him.

Mac was coldy furious. Methos had run out on Joe just as the Watcher – damn it, Methos' _friend_ – needed him the most. He'd _promised_. And now it looked like the only person Methos really cared about was Methos. _Guess I should have believed him after all,_ Mac thought bitterly.

He forced himself to remain calm, and to preserve his energy for the fight against the greater evil. He emptied the barge of clutter, to Joe's bemusement, and together, Watcher and Immortal struggled to find the way to defeat the ancient demon. Eventually, they succeeded, after too many innocent deaths, too much pain. Father Beaufort, Joe, Sophie Baine's little brother – all had been touched by the agony of Ahriman's false promises and his evil.

The victory Mac had won at so high a price was not one he and Joe could celebrate. The most he could summon was a sense of a job well done, and even that was tinged by anger and bitterness at the cost to himself, and Methos' betrayal. Joe had had no contact with Methos since he had left Paris, and the only word Joe had got was Methos' telephone call telling that Mac had gone away to sort himself out, and promising to come over soon. But he never had done. He didn't go to the burial, help with the gravestone, or even visit. Joe had called over, but no one was home the first two times, and then the place was shut up. Part of Mac told him there had to be a reason, Methos cared too much about him and about Joe – the rest of him said a year was more than enough time to get in touch and explain.

There was too much sadness in MacLeod for true peace. He may have been the millennial champion, but he was also, as Methos had been fond of saying about himself, just a guy, and the burdens of his responsibilities and his sins weighed heavy on his soul. He spent a lot of time on the stripped barge meditating, and trying to understand all that had happened, to find some peace. He only partly succeeded.

He was sitting on his grass mat when he felt an Immortal presence, one he had once been all too familiar with. "Hello, Duncan," a soft baritone said hesitantly.

He wasn't going to make the first move, not this time. "What do you want, Methos?" he asked without turning. No reply, but eventually, the sound of boots on a polished wood floor, and the other Immortal stood in front of him. "I said, what do you want?"

"I want ... I ... Duncan...." Methos just ran out of sound, and stared at him. He looked thinner, and tired. If Mac didn't know better, he'd almost think the old man had been ill. "Mac...."

"What do you want?" MacLeod repeated, irritated at the unusual hesitancy, and refusing to make this easy for his visitor.

Methos opened and closed his mouth a few times, then shook his head. "Nothing. I want nothing at all." Then he swivelled and walked away. MacLeod didn't watch him go.

So, still no explanations, and no apology. It was pointless trying to meditate after that – the peaceful mood was broken by the anger he felt. He didn't want to feel anything any more, or worry about what Methos had wanted. He couldn't spare the energy any more.

It was time he visited Joe again anyway. The bluesman greeted him with the sad expression that seemed permanently welded to his face these days. "How's it hanging, Mac?" he asked, in a brave attempt to appear cheerful.

"Same place as always, Joe. Got any water?"

"Water," Joe grumbled as always. "You're going to send me to the poorhouse."

"And here I was thinking that you were running a home for old Immortals all this time. Speaking of which, guess who's back in town?"

"Adam?" Mac winced inside himself at Joe's sudden hopeful expression. He hadn't appreciated how much the Watcher had missed the old man. "What did he say?"

"Nothing."

"Mac," Joe said in exasperation. "Where's he staying? Is he going to be in Paris for a while? Is he planning to drop by?"

"Joe, he said about ten words to me, and told me nothing at all." He didn't mention that he had done nothing to draw the other Immortal out.

"Did he look okay?"

"He was alive."

Joe sighed. "Well, that's something. You know, I was worried about him - I figured Ahriman must have got to him like he tried to get to me."

"I don't think he stuck around long enough for that to happen," Mac replied sardonically.

"Doesn't that strike you as a tad unusual, MacLeod? This is Methos we're talking about. Who came to you when Richie died, huh? Who stuck by you when you had that Dark Quickening? I don't think he ran away for a vacation."

"I didn't say he didn't have a reason to leave – I just said that he did." Mac was becoming defensive. It wasn't his job to second-guess Methos' behaviour.

"Well, I'd like to see the old bastard for myself. I'm going to see if the Watchers have picked up on him."

Mac set his glass down. "You do that, Joe. I just dropped in to let you know and to see how things were going."

"Wait, MacLeod! You're going already?"

"Things to do, Joe. Bye."

Another lie. He had little to do, and nothing to keep his mind busy when he wasn't meditating, so nothing stopped him churning over the strange behaviour of a man he called friend, and who had called him 'love'. Some strange variant of love he was unaware of, obviously.

He saw no one for several days, but then he got a call from Joe. "Mac, I found where Adam's living."

"So?"

"So – there's a problem. I've called around twice, and no one's answering the door. I get the feeling it's not because there's no one home, if you get my drift."

"Maybe he wants privacy, Joe. Or maybe he can't face you. I don't see how it's my problem," he said coldly.

"Jesus, you're a vindictive son of a bitch when you want to be, MacLeod! Look, all I'm asking is for you to go over there, do your spider sense thingie, and then let me know. I'll take it from there."

"Joe, if he wanted to see me, he knows where I live."

"Yeah – well, he tried that. What did you say to him when you saw him? How come you let him go without a word?"

MacLeod was angry and only barely maintained his manners. "Look, Joe - give me the address. I'll see if he's home, and call you from outside the building. The rest is up to you – I've got nothing I want to say to him."

"No kidding," Joe said dryly. He reeled off an address surprisingly close to the barge. "When will you go over?"

Mac checked his watch. "I could go now – are you around?"

"Yeah. And Mac – be nice. He's been good to you."

"Later, Joe," Mac said as he signed off.

This was the last thing he wanted to do, he grumbled to himself. If he were a less honourable man, he could just call Joe and pretend he'd been to the flat, but he couldn't do that to the Watcher. Anyway, maybe he did have a word or two he wanted to say to Methos– words that would give him a lot of pleasure to get off his chest.

The apartment building wasn't nearly as fashionable, or as nice, as the one Adam Pierson had rented before. To be completely honest, it was horrible. There was no elevator, and Methos' flat was at the top of the building. Mac listened at the door, and heard nothing, although there was a faint Presence which told him an Immortal was home. He knocked, and got no answer. Tried again, and then lost his temper at the stupid game Methos was playing. He pounded on the door. "Open up, Adam, you son of a bitch!" Still nothing. Well, that did it. Mac shouldered the door with his considerable strength, and snapped the cheap lock easily.

The place was bare save for a ratty chair, some unopened cardboard boxes and a bed, on which lay Methos, apparently asleep. Mac slammed the door shut, but the older Immortal did not react. _Something's wrong._ He walked over to the bed. "Methos?"

There was no response. He shook the shoulder closest to him but could not rouse the man. Frowning, Mac sat on the bed and rolled Methos over. What he saw horrified him – the skin was drawn and whiter than any normal skin should be, and when he touched it, it felt like parchment. He saw Methos was wearing the same clothes he'd worn when he came to the barge, which were old, and not very clean. He hadn't even removed his shoes. Mac lifted the sweater and the shirt underneath it, and was shocked at the other man's emaciation. What had happened to him? His anger disappeared in a flash. Methos needed his help, that was all that mattered. They could talk and argue when he was fit. He looked around for signs of food and nourishment, but there wasn't even a fridge. There were no groceries of any description – it looked for all the world like he had just walked in, dumped a few worldly possessions on the floor, and like Sleeping Beauty, fallen asleep, never to wake again.

He dialled Joe's number. "Joe, I'm in Methos' apartment. You were right, there is a problem."

"Is he alive?" Mac felt guilty at the raw fear in Joe's voice.

"Yes, but he's sick. We need some food, invalid stuff – lots of liquid too. Look – bring it to the barge. The man's camping out here, it's hopeless. I'll meet you in half an hour."

When he hung up, he assessed the situation. He would have to carry the man down the stairs, and get a taxi the short distance to the barge. No problem. He checked that Methos' wallet and passport were in his jeans, and then hoisted the unconscious man in a fireman's lift. Methos' sword and coat he would leave for Joe to collect – Methos was in no shape to use a weapon. He was shocked at how light Methos had become since he had last had to lift him, the night Byron had died. It was still not easy to carry him down the old narrow stairs but he managed it, and by giving a passing taxi a big enough tip, persuaded the driver to take the two of them to the barge.

The bed was the one piece of furniture Mac had kept, not being quite ascetic enough to enjoy sleeping on grass mats. He lowered the dead weight of the unconscious man onto the bed gratefully, then looked him over. Undressing him seemed a good idea, and a bath wouldn't hurt him if he ever woke up. Mac settled for removing the hiking boots, the jeans and layers of shirts and jumpers that hid the ghastly thinness. It looked like Joe may have guessed correctly about Ahriman after all, but God only knew what had happened to get Methos into this condition.

He made some of the tea he had become so fond of, and poured out some into a bowl, blowing on it to cool it to room temperature. He knew making an unconscious person drink was dangerous, but the worst that could happen was that Methos would choke to death and revive. Worth the risk, he considered. The irony, and the poignancy, of having to prop the world's oldest man up on his arm like a mewling child did not escape him, and he was infinitely tender as he fed the smallest sips of tea with a spoon into the slack mouth. Most of it ran out, but some went down, the long throat swallowing in reflex which Mac considered to be a very good sign.

Joe arrived before he had got half the bowl inside Methos. "Oh, Jesus," Joe said reverently. "What's happened to him?"

"I don't know, Joe. He was unconscious in the flat when I broke in." Joe put down the bags he'd brought and handed Mac some Lucozade. "Thanks - Joe, could you go around and pick up what clothes you can find? I left his sword behind, and I think the door will need securing."

"You're going to keep him here?" Joe was surprised.

"I can look after him better here – you'll see when you go up. Oh crap - the stairs." He'd forgotten – Joe would never make that many flights, not carrying stuff. "Look, you keep putting the fluid in, I'll go and get the gear."

They switched places carefully. "Mac – he's skin and bone," Joe said, horrified at the lack of substance to the man in his arms.

"I know. First we get him well, and then we kill him, okay?"

Joe suddenly grinned. "Now that's something I'm looking forward to," the Watcher said.

MacLeod was there and back in half an hour. He was unconcerned about the broken lock when he saw how pitiful the possessions were – there was literally nothing worth stealing, and the place would be safe until he could arrange a locksmith to call. The more urgent matter was on the barge.

"Any change?" he asked Joe as he came in and dumped the bag of clothing and the sword.

"No. How did he get like this?"

"Beats me. I guess we'll have to ask him."

Now the lack of furniture on the barge began to bite – Joe had to sit on the bed, since sitting on the floor was unthinkable with his prostheses. Mac patiently fed Methos sips of tea and Lucozade for an hour, and then when Joe took over, he called his storage company and arranged for the sofa, small table with chairs, and his armchair to be extracted immediately, all at enormous expense, but at least it would be there tomorrow. "How long?" Joe asked, referring to Methos' recovery.

Mac shrugged. "You tell me."

As the sun went down, they estimated they had got about a litre of fluid inside Methos. Mac, at least, thought he looked less dehydrated. Joe was dubious. "I dunno, Mac. I think he should be on a drip."

"We'd have to get a doctor, Joe – how do we explain that?"

"I'm just saying it's an idea – not necessarily a good idea," Joe replied ruefully.

Joe heated up the soup he'd brought and some leftovers in Mac's fridge for their supper. MacLeod took a break, leaving Methos on the bed while they ate the food off trays on their knees. "Now do you think he walked out on you?" Joe asked.

"I don't know what to think," Mac answered honestly. "I mean, he has a history of running away from danger...."

"And a history of pulling your nuts out of the fire," Joe finished.

"Yeah. I don't suppose I'll ever really understand him."

Joe snorted. "Come off it, Mac. He's not that hard to figure. He wants to stay alive – well, who doesn't? He cares for his friends – just like you. Misses the ones who die, like we all do. He farts and eats and snores like the rest of us."

"He doesn't snore," Mac murmured.

"Huh?"

"He doesn't snore. When I've stayed with him, or him with me – he doesn't snore." Mac gave Joe a defensive stare until the Watcher backed down.

"Fine – he doesn't snore. He's just a man, MacLeod."

"I know," Mac said softly, touching the lank hair. Methos looked a mess - unshaven, untidy, dirty. So unlike the catlike man he remembered. "I think I can handle it for tonight, Joe, if you want to get home. I could do with your help tomorrow."

Joe levered himself up. "Okay – you'll have some chairs then, right?" He winced at his stiff hips. "You take care of the old bastard, you hear?"

"I will. Good night, Joe."

The barge was curiously peaceful when the Watcher left, and Mac was reminded of the last night he had been with Methos on this very boat. Only then it was he who needed comfort, and Methos had provided it. He kissed the dark hair. "I forgot how much you loved me then, Methos. I'm sorry."

Late as it was getting, he decided that he really had to try and get some more liquid inside the patient. He was encouraged by the slight improvement in the skin, and in Methos' breathing which was less raspy than it had been. Mac got a whole bottle of Lucozade into him before calling it quits. He sniffed at Methos' underwear and decided that he really couldn't sleep next to him in that condition – he smelled stale and ill and would undoubtedly offend himself if he woke up. _When_ he woke up, Mac corrected himself firmly. He stripped the limp body of the boxers and T-shirt, and got a bowl of soapy water and a cloth to give the man a sponge bath. It hurt to see the strong, lithe body reduced that way, and now he looked, he could see marks of grief and strain under his eyes. Surely Methos couldn't have come to this in a few days.

It looked to him, with his field medic's eye, that Methos was now sleeping more naturally and he hoped that the energy and fluid they had provided his body with, would be enough for the miracle of Immortal healing to work on. He stripped his own clothes off and got in beside Methos. He almost looked forward to having to explain how they had wound up like this again - he would enjoy hearing the old man get angry, or just say anything. He didn't like the silence.

* * *

The moans woke him, and then the shuddering. Methos' body was almost convulsing but the old man's eyes were still tightly shut. "It's all right, Methos, it's all right," he soothed, holding the other man to his chest, and stroking his hair.

Methos continued to struggle. "'Lexa," he moaned. "No." He twisted his head back and forth, as if trying to escape from something. "Alexa!" he screamed. "Alexa, stop!" Mac was hard pressed not to be thrown out of bed, and he was nearly deafened by the yelling.

"Come on, Methos, wake up. It's not real," he said, shaking the other man a little, uncertain if he should wake him up. Abruptly, Methos went still, his whole body relaxed, and Mac laid him down again. The nightmare, whatever it was, was over.

But it wasn't the last one. Twice more, Mac was shocked awake by horrible yells, and after the last one, he decided it would be better to try and get some more liquid into Methos since he still wasn't waking up. He tried juice this time, but Methos began to cough and choke after the first few sips. "'Lexa?" he asked, his eyelids fluttering.

"No, Methos, it's Duncan. Wake up for me."

"Dun'n," he mumbled. The eyelids came half-open, the eyes underneath looking bloodshot and weary. Mac tried the juice again, but Methos turned his head away. "Don'," he protested.

"Come on, wake up, Methos." Mac shook him a little, and the bloodshot eyes opened fully, regarding him dully.

"Oh," Methos said, disappointment clear in his voice. "'Lexa?"

"Alexa's not here, Methos. She's ... gone away," he obfuscated. "Can you sit up?"

Methos was trying to curl up and go to sleep, so Mac had to force him to sit up. He hated to do it, but the sooner Methos was awake and taking in food, the better. "Leave me 'lone, Mac," he muttered.

"No way, Methos. You wake up, or I'll dump you in a cold shower." With a tremendous effort, Methos pushed himself away from Mac and leaned against the headboard. "That's better. Are you hungry?"

"No. Mac – leave me alone." Methos' voice was raw with pain, tearing at Mac's heart.

"Why, Methos?" He took the thin face in his hands. "What happened?"

" 'Lexa died, Mac."

MacLeod was horrified as tears slid down the tired face, and the thin body began to shake with sobs. He pulled Methos into his arms and rocked him. "That was two years ago, Methos," he said gently.

"No," Methos choked out, "not two years. A month ago. Just a month." His body convulsed with grief, and all Mac could do was hold on. _What was he talking about?_

The dawn was coming up. Joe would be here in a couple of hours, Mac thought as he held Methos' shaking body in his arms. He could really do with the Watcher's help. "Methos?" he said gently. "You should eat something."

"No, Mac. I'm not hungry." The tears had eased. Methos' eyes were closed again, and his voice was weary. Mac needed a pee, and he thought Methos might drink some tea if he made it so he laid the other man down, patting him on the shoulder to reassure him he would return.

When he did, bringing a tray with tea things and some toast, Methos was curled into a defensive ball. "Methos, sit up."

"No, Mac. Just leave me alone."

 _Okay, no more Mr Nice Guy,_ Mac thought. He carefully put the tea tray aside, stripped the covers back and grabbed Methos around the waist and dragged him off the bed.

It was like fighting a wild cat, albeit a very tired and weak wild cat. Methos yelled and punched and scratched, but Mac was able to force him into the barge's small shower where the threatened blast of cold water brought out some extremely inventive curses. Mac turned the cold water off and threw Methos a towel. "Get your backside out of there and dry yourself now or I swear, it's the Seine for you."

Methos glared at him, but started to towel himself off before clutching at the wall and slumping. _Oh shit,_ Mac thought, catching him before he could fall. He wrapped him up in a fresh towel and hauled him back over to the bed. Methos had gone a rather unpleasant grey colour and he was panting again. Mac sat next to him and dried the wet hair, letting his touch become a massage. "It's all right, Methos. Whatever it is, we can fight it," he said softly. Tears dripped slowly down the long nose. Mac dabbed them away with the towel until Methos fell asleep again.

Mac drank the tea himself, ate the toast, and treated himself to a couple of boiled eggs. No point in both of them wasting away. He had his own shower and dressed in sweats which would let him be comfortable in the bed. Joe should be arriving soon, he hoped, and his furniture – he'd paid enough for the express delivery.

In the end, the furniture arrived before Joe did, Methos resolutely ignoring all the bustle and noise, and was again asleep – or doing a good imitation of it – when the Watcher arrived.

"How's he doing?" Joe whispered. Mac saw no reason for keeping his voice down.

"He's been showered, and was awake. He's not exactly co-operating, " he said, loudly enough for the lump on the bed to hear.

Joe looked astonished. "You're arguing with him already? I don't know whether to be impressed or horrified. Did he say what's wrong?"

Now Mac did lower his voice. "Joe – he said Alexa died a month ago."

"Amnesia?" Joe said incredulously.

Mac shook his head. "It didn't sound like it. He didn't say much...."

He was interrupted by a weak, haughty voice. "If you two would stop talking _about_ me, and talk _to_ me, I could explain, or try to."

Startled, and pleased at getting any kind of response, MacLeod collected a glass of juice on his way to the bed, hoping that Methos might drink it. He offered it and Methos didn't refuse it, although his hand shook too much to hold it himself. He sipped it slowly, drinking about a third before pushing it away. "How do you feel?" Joe asked. Methos looked appalling, his eyes sunken and his skin still grey and lifeless. He avoided the question.

"Mac, help me sit, please." MacLeod did as he was asked, and when it became obvious that Methos was shivering, he sat behind him, and wrapped his arms around him, to Joe's obvious surprise. "Don't look like that, Joe – Mac's just applying his standard nursing technique of trying to squeeze the life out of the patient."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch, Methos. You want to tell us what happened to you?"

Mac felt Methos shudder and unconsciously he began to stroke his arm, as he would a child to calm him. Methos was either too tired or too inured to embarrassment to care.

"I owe you an apology, Joe," Methos began in a low voice. The Watcher sat on the bed to catch the soft words. "I promised Mac I would look after you and I didn't."

"It's okay, Methos," Joe said, looking most uncomfortable. "I'm sure you had your reasons. I told Mac you must have."

"I did." Nothing more. Mac leaned forward to look at Methos' face and saw he had his eyes closed.

"Methos? Are you all right?"

"Give me a minute, Mac. Is there any more juice?"

Mac helped him drink some more. He didn't like the way Methos was trembling, and from the concerned expression on Joe's face, neither did he. "We can do this later, Methos. All we want is for you to get better."

Methos pushed the glass away. "All I want to do is tell you what happened and then to be left alone, MacLeod. Maybe when I tell you, you'll understand why." Mac didn't care for the dead tone of Methos' voice but he hadn't given up on him, not by a long way. Methos continued, regardless of the alarmed looks from both his friends. "The morning you left, I locked up here and went back to my apartment. Kronos was waiting for me."

"Ahriman," Joe whispered. Methos nodded.

"I knew that, of course, and realised then Mac wasn't crazy – well, not, at least, about that." Joe smiled at the feeble joke. Mac just held Methos closer. "The bastard wouldn't let me leave the flat – and when he got tired of baiting me, Richie started. Then they stopped – I didn't know why. Then I got a call from Geneva. Can you guess who it was?"

"Alexa?" Joe said, horror plain on his face. Methos nodded again.

"I thought it was another illusion of course, but then Kronos came back. He said ... he said ... Mac, I'm sorry ..." Methos choked up. Joe got up and walked away to let him have some privacy.

"Methos, whatever it is, I forgive you. I know what it was like." He turned Methos around until his face rested on Mac's shirt.

"He said Alexa would be alive as long as you stayed away from Paris," Methos said in a rush, his voice muffled. Mac's gut seized in pain. _Oh fuck._ "I had to do something, Mac. Don't you see? I had to go to her, I had to... we'd had so little time ... she was so happy and well ... I loved her so much."

 _God._ This was worse than anything Mac had imagined, almost worse than the death of Richie. "I understand, Methos."

"No, you don't, Duncan. That's not the worst part. The worst part was ... after a year in Geneva with Alexa, Kronos came back. He said you were on your way back to Paris, and if I wanted Alexa to live, I would have to stop you defeating Ahriman. Not help you, and hinder you as much as I could. Make fun of the Highlander, he said. Destroy his peace, his confidence. And if I don't? I asked. She dies, he said." Methos shuddered again. "I said ... no. I told him to go to hell."

"And then she died?" Mac asked gently.

"No. He left, we made love, and she was just the same as she had been. So beautiful, Duncan. She just ... glowed."

"She was a wonderful lass, Methos. You chose well."

"You think so?" Methos' voice made it clear that the worst had not been told.

"What happened?"

"We were on our way back to Paris. A hit and run driver – she was run over and killed. She died in my arms. For the second time. Mac – I'm sorry, but I wish I had not told Kronos to leave. I want her back, and it's too fucking late." His voice went quiet, and he turned tear-filled eyes to Mac. "Now will you leave me alone?" he said in a toneless dead voice which belied the pain in his expression.

"No, Methos, I won't, " Mac whispered, choked up. "I don't care if it hurts, I need you too much. I'm sorry."

"So am I, Mac." Methos heaved a shuddering sigh. From the other side of the barge, Joe looked at him with shining eyes, profound sympathy written all over his grizzled features. Mac slid out from behind Methos and laid the old Immortal carefully down, covering him up before coming over to the Watcher. He motioned them to go topside.

"Christ, Mac," Joe said in a broken voice. "That's about the worst thing ... how can he stand it?"

"He can't. I suppose the next thing he'll do will be to find someone to take his head."

"Can you blame him?"

"No. It's just how I felt over Richie, and I only lost him the once." _So much pain,_ Mac thought. _This last year has been pain, pain and then some. When the hell can we ever catch a break?_ "Methos saved my life then, Joe. I owe it to him to try now. Will you stay?"

"You don't have to ask. What about Amanda? She gets on pretty well with him."

Mac sighed in frustration. "I haven't heard from or seen her since I got back. I think she's mad at me."

Joe nodded. "She shook her Watcher again. I'll try tracking her down. What will you do with Methos?"

"Do what he did for me. Show him how he's loved, and give him a reason to live." That earned him an assessing look from his Watcher. "You disapprove?"

"No, Mac. I just think you better be ready to follow through with any promises you make now. I don't think Methos would be able to stand another heartbreak, even if he gets through this."

"I don't plan on breaking anyone's heart, Joe. I love him," Mac said, surprised how firmly he was able to say that.

"In what way, Mac?"

"Whatever he needs."

"Okay, buddy, but you better be prepared. That guy has a big ole heart, and it's damn empty now."

"Come down and help me fill it up, Joe. We're gonna give until the pips squeak." Joe grinned a little, and feeling more cheerful, Mac led him back inside.

* * *

Easier said than done, Mac reflected somewhat sourly after a tiring and frustrating day fighting Methos' lack of will to live and his considerable debilitation. Methos was simply uninterested in his own welfare, and when he was forced to pay some minimal attention to his body's demands, he was as uncooperative as hell. He would drink a little but point blank refused to eat. When he finally needed to piss, he clutched Mac's robe about him like a suit of armour, and determinedly made his wobbly way to the bathroom, steadfastly ignoring Mac or Joe's attempts to help him there, and not even acknowledging them. When he returned from the bathroom, he demanded to know where his clothes were.

"I'm washing them, Methos – they stank," Mac said with a grimace, remembering the smell. "Why do you need them?"

Methos glared at him. "I'm going home."

Joe coughed, and Mac laughed incredulously. "You're out of your gourd, Methos. You wouldn't make it up the stairs, and if you think I'm letting you out of my sight, you have another think coming."

Methos ignored him, and spotted the plastic bag MacLeod had rescued from his apartment. The two other men watched in disbelief as the old man tried to dress himself, ending up on his arse in a most undignified fashion, a pair of boxers around his ankles. "Need a hand there, Methos?" Mac asked him finally.

"Fuck off, Highlander," Methos said angrily, but then Mac's heart melted as he began to cry quietly, hiding his face behind his hands and resisting any attempt to calm him. Mac knelt and put his arms around the weeping man.

"Don't, Methos. Do you have any idea what you're doing to us, having to watch you like this?" Methos ignored him and pushed and pushed until Mac set him free. Slowly Methos crawled to the wall and pulled himself upright, standing there swaying. "Let me help you," MacLeod said but Methos shook his head violently. He began to make his way along the wall, shaking like a leaf, but stopped when he saw Joe staring at him.

"Go home, Joe. Please. Don't watch this," Methos pleaded.

"Methos, don't give up."

"It hurts, Joe," he whispered.

"I know, pal. But we don't want to lose you. You have to live, Methos. We need you. _I_ need you.

Methos stared. "I don't think I can do it," he said faintly.

"You gotta try. That's all we want. Don't make me beg, kneeling's a bitch." Mac heard Methos make a kind of choked laugh, and Joe grinned in a damp way. "Listen, I have to go. I'll see you – _both_ of you – tomorrow." Joe made his slow way out. Mac went to Methos and this time, the old man didn't fight him as Mac got him back to the bed.

Methos lay limp as a wet rag. Mac rescued the robe and hung it up. "Why are you doing this to us, Methos? You're killing Joe, you know that, don't you?"

"No one asked you to interfere, Duncan." Mac seized Methos by the shoulders. "You know, I'm getting pretty fucking tired of being manhandled, MacLeod." Methos closed his eyes wearily.

"Then get well, and fight me properly. Don't lie there like a burst paper bag with your guts hanging out and expect me to ignore you," Mac said roughly.

"This isn't about you, Duncan," Methos said tiredly. "This is about living too long, and having too much pain."

"Bullshit, Methos. I can't believe you're rolling over and giving up because a bloody girlfriend died. She was a mortal – they don't matter in the grand scheme of things." He was gratified when Methos' fist flew out and broke his nose. "Good shot," he said in a muffled voice, holding his face and wincing at the agony. "Guess we're even now." He held his nose until the bones and cartilage realigned themselves, then wiped the blood off with his handkerchief.

"You shut your fucking mouth and never mention Alexa again, you pig turd."

Methos was struggling to get up, and Mac knew better than to help. "Why, Methos? What difference does it make? You die, and then the only opinion that'll last will be mine. If I choose to tell people about this silly bint who made the world's oldest immortal lose the will to live, you won't be around to stop me, will you?"

If Methos had been well and fit, he would have seen through Mac's manipulation in a second, but he wasn't. He launched himself at Mac, and landed a couple of wild but solid punches before Mac overcame him and threw him back on the bed. "Is that the best you can do, old man?" he taunted. "Christ, I'm glad you never fought for _my_ honour. I thought you had some balls. Guess I was wrong."

He was being as cruel as he knew how and Methos' face was red with anger. He grabbed Mac's sweater and tried to pull him back, but Mac peeled his hand off easily. "Bugger off, Methos. I've got better things to do than be pawed by you."

He walked off to the kitchen, leaving Methos gasping and swearing behind him. _Fight, old man,_ he prayed. _Don't let this beat you._ He peeled a banana and turned to look at Methos, making his expression as provocative and insolent as he could manage. Methos ignored him, and was again trying to get up. Slightly to Mac's amazement, he made it as far as the bag of clothes again, but when he bent over to pick it up, he passed out. Mac winced as he thudded to the floor. "Jesus," he swore. He hefted Methos up in his arms and carried him back to the bed. _Damn, you're determined when you want to be,_ he thought. _Why the hell can't you apply that to staying alive?_

He stood with his arms crossed, waiting for Methos to come to. "Finished our little dramatics?" he sneered.

"Fuck you," Methos spat.

"Not bloody likely. I don't sleep with losers." _Fight,_ he prayed. _Argue, get mad. Don't give up._ But to his dismay, Methos just closed his eyes.

"I know what you're doing, MacLeod. Nice try, though."

"Well, fuck you, too, Methos," he said angrily. Methos cocked open one bloodshot eye.

"As you said, not bloody likely."

Mac stalked over to the sofa. Methos settled down, and soon appeared to sleep. MacLeod wasn't fooled. He locked the barge doors and kept the keys in his hand as he slept on the sofa. He doubted Methos could even get to the door without falling over, but he wasn't taking any chances.

* * *

Mac's sleep was troubled, and just when he'd dropped off after waking for the third time, Methos started to yell and moan in a repeat of the night before. As before, Mac held him until he went quiet, then, deciding it was not likely to be the end of things for the night, he stayed in the bed and kept his arms around him.

Rather to his surprise, Methos slept quietly until dawn, curled comfortably on MacLeod's chest. Mac had awakened long before his friend, but was careful not to move. Methos lifted his head and gave him a startled look. "Surprise," Mac said dryly.

"I'll make a wild guess and say I don't think you're here because you're suddenly overcome with lust for me." Methos made no attempt to move away.

"No – you were howling like a banshee last night, and I thought the only way to get any peace was to come over and strangle you from time to time." He stroked Methos' tangled hair – he'd let it get very long. "Methos, about last night..."

"I know what you were up to, Mac. I wish I could say I appreciate it, but I wish more I could make you understand this is my choice to make."

Mac really didn't understand. "Then why this way, Methos? Why not go out and look for a Challenge?"

"I'm just tired, Mac. I just want to rest, I want the world to go away. Don't tell me you never felt like that."

Methos rolled over and lay staring into space. _Oh, damn, Methos. Don't cry again, I can't stand it,_ he thought. "Jesus, Methos," he said softly. "I wish you knew how much it hurt when I thought you'd gone away and left us. Left _me_ , Methos. I needed you – need you. Don't make me go through your death. Not you as well." He was uncomfortably aware he was babbling, but he continued anyway. May as well make a complete fool of myself, he thought.

He turned the thin face to him. "I know it hurts. I know it's horrible. But just give me a chance to show you it can be good again." _Not Methos_ , he thought despairingly. _Not him and Richie and Tessa and Fitz._ Not as well as all the other friends and lovers he had lost. "Please, Methos," he said in a voice clouded by sorrow. "You helped me live after ... after Richie. Give me a chance to help you. Please."

Methos kissed him gently and stroked his hair. "Don't cry. It will be all right," he said softly, and gratefully, Mac did that, holding Methos close.

"I love you, Methos," he whispered.

"I know."

"Don't leave me."

"I won't."

* * *

Mac was aware of a number of not altogether pleasant sensations when he woke. One, his arm was asleep. Two, he needed to pee. Three, the sun was well up, flooding the barge with light and heat and that meant ... four, he was being observed from closer than usual quarters by his Watcher. He lifted his head and saw Joe standing at the foot of the bed, looking straight back at him. It must have been his footsteps which woke him up. _Shit_ , he thought, _sometimes I wish I'd never given that guy a key._ He put a finger to his lips to signal silence, and Joe gave him a thumbs up, taking a seat in the armchair. He turned his attention to his companion. Methos was sound asleep, but Mac could tell nothing from the sleeping face, except that he looked a little less ill and tired. Still not in perfect health. But alive.

Mac didn't dare move – he wouldn't have disturbed the old man for anything. He went over what he had said in the dawn's early light, and while he had felt foolish spilling out raw emotion over a sick man like that, he wouldn't have retracted a word of it. Would it be enough to sway his stubborn friend? And more important, would the love Mac now admitted for the old bugger be enough to stop him drifting away? He prayed that it would.

Methos mumbled, woke quite suddenly and then checked his surroundings. His suspicious expression softened as he found Mac. "Hi," he said.

"Hi yourself. How do you feel?"

"Oh, like crap, what do you think? Are you all right?"

"I will be if you are," Mac said honestly.

Methos sighed dramatically. "You Scots are really into guilt, aren't you?"

He refused to be distracted. "Methos? Has anything changed?"

"After that impassioned plea earlier? I'm not made of stone, Duncan. For you, yes, I'll try. Forgive me if I don't feel compelled to do so on my own behalf just yet."

 _His eyes are still so sad_ , Mac thought regretfully. "That's good enough for now, old man. You know we have an audience?"

"Hello, Joe," Methos said calmly. The mortal stumped over and grinned at the pair of them.

"You look sweet like that, guys,"

"Piss off, Joe," Mac said. "You could at least have made tea."

"Coming up, pal. Methos, do you want some juice?"

"And some toast, if you don't mind," Methos added. The two men stared at him. "What did I say?"

"Hallelujah, Mac, he's seen the light. What did you do?" Joe said, unable to contain his pleasure. Methos scowled at him, which only made him grin harder.

"Filled up that empty space a little, I think, Joe. Um, Joe – do you think you could leave us to it today? I think Methos and I need to talk."

"We do?" Methos said disingenuously

"You do? Sure, buddy," Joe said, still grinning. "I'll let you make your own breakfast then."

"Thanks, Joe," Mac said. Joe waved and left.

"We need to talk?" Methos said.

"Yeah, we do, but first I need to pee and then to have some breakfast. Were you serious about the toast?"

"I said I would try, Mac," Methos said reproachfully. Mac eased himself out of the bed, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Yes, you did, and I'm going to hold you to that. Do you need to get up?"

"Not just now. Hurry back."

Methos was sound asleep when Mac came back, so he dressed quietly. He thought he could manage better than tea and toast for breakfast, and he had another errand he desperately wanted to run. It took him a little longer than he planned, and when he came back into the barge, he found Methos sprawled on the floor. "Bloody hell, Methos – what are you up to?" He picked the sick man up and set him on the bed. There were fresh tear tracks on Methos' face, and Mac traced them with a finger. "What's wrong?"

Methos blinked up at him. "I thought ... you were gone ... I thought you took a Challenge and when I felt an Immortal .... I was going for my sword," he finished sheepishly and Mac couldn't help but laugh.

"And what did you plan to do, oh mighty warrior? Saw him off at the ankles?" He made Methos comfortable, and put the bag of pastries next to him on the bed.

"The trouble with you young things is that you have no respect for age and wisdom," Methos said haughtily, but his eyes were still full of grief.

"Absolutely. And the other trouble with us young things," he said in apology, sorry for the unnecessary worry he'd caused, "is that they forget that their friends might get worried when they disappear, even if it is only to buy brioche and _pain au chocolat_." He showed Methos the contents of the bag, and Methos nodded in unenthusiastic acknowledgement. _Give me time, old man,_ he prayed. "I thought you might be sick of my tea. How does hot chocolate sound? I got some coffee too."

"Chocolate sounds nice, Duncan," Methos said politely.

There are two ways to make hot chocolate – the usual way, and the right way, with scalded cream and sugar. Mac bore his creation carefully over to the bed, and Methos sniffed appreciatively. "My, my, Mac – that's sybaritic for you, isn't it?"

"All for you." He put the tray down and kept it steady, and dished out a selection of pastries for Methos to choose from. He picked a croissant for himself. Methos sipped the hot drink.

"It's good, Duncan. Thanks." He picked the corner of a brioche bun but only played with it.

"You need to eat, Methos. If there's nothing there you fancy, I can get it...."

"Don't fuss, Mac," Methos said peevishly. "Let me take my time." He was good as his word, eating a buttered brioche, and drank a second cup of chocolate. He was already looking much better and Mac said so.

"I guess the survival instinct is stronger than I thought," he said ruefully. "I made an idiot of myself yesterday, didn't I?"

"We knew how much pain you must be in." MacLeod said gently, stroking the back of Methos' hand with his thumb. "I think you just should have given us a chance to help, that's all."

"I don't know, Mac," Methos answered. "I didn't plan on telling you about Alexa, or even hanging around. I really just wanted to be sure you were safe. I knew you'd be angry – you had every right to be."

"No, I didn't. I'm just beginning to realise there are a lot of things I do I have no right to, and being cruel to you is definitely one of them." Methos clasped his hand and Mac noted his skin was warmer, and less parchment-like. "Would you like to get dressed and come up top? It's a beautiful day."

"Do you think I'll make it this time?" Methos joked, but Mac took him seriously, helping him dress and not letting him stand on his own until he was sure he wouldn't faint again. Being clothed made Methos look more normal, and he really did look more healthy. Chalk one up to Immortal healing, Mac thought.

He was still a little shaky but climbed the barge stairs easily to come to sit on the roof. The day was indeed sparkling, hot even. "Seems a shame the barge is moored – it would be so nice to float away," Methos said wistfully.

"Would you like to?" MacLeod asked.

Methos looked a little startled. "How impetuous of you, Mac. Or are you talking about in a week's time?"

"No, right now. I've got fuel and nothing to do. And you had no plans, I bet." Even as he spoke, Mac was already going through the complex routine of unhooking himself from sewerage and electricity.

"Mac, I really should go back to my apartment," Methos protested. "I need to unpack." Mac stopped what he was doing and came to crouch in front of him. "What have you done?" Methos asked resignedly. "You've got those puppy eyes again."

"You'll be mad, but it was for your own good."

"MacLeod...," Methos said warningly.

"I gave your notice on the flat."

"You _what_?"

"Methos," he said defensively, "that place stunk. You had no intention of 'living' there at all, did you?"

"My home, MacLeod. My choice. You had no fucking right!" Methos was shouting but then coughed harshly. "You bastard," he said more quietly.

"Yes, okay. You stay with me until you are well again, and then we will find you a decent place to live."

"My stuff...." Methos appeared to accept losing his apartment was a _fait accompli_.

"Is being taken to Joe's cellar as we speak. Methos – forgive me – the thought of you in that place made my skin crawl. I was being selfish."

Methos looked at him and sighed in disgust. "There you go with the eyes again. Okay, it's done. Doesn't mean I like it, though."

"Let me make it up to you? Let's take a couple days' holiday down river. You could do with it, and so could I. It'll give us time to talk."

Mac didn't wait for the answer but continued the unmooring process. "You and your 'talking', MacLeod. All right – it's not like I'm in a position to stop you, am I?" Methos tried to look resigned and put upon, but his eyes held more life in them than they had since he woke up.

"That's my boy – always so enthusiastic and positive. You'll love it, Methos."

"I did tell you how much I hate the water, didn't I, MacLeod?" Methos' voice floated over the river.

"Only a dozen times, but I'm sure you'll remind me again," Mac said dryly, secretly delighted. This would be good for them, if he had to die trying.

 

* * *

Mac called Joe on his mobile as he steered the barge out of its mooring. They weren't perfectly prepared – they could have done with more groceries, Methos grumbled about the lack of clothes and his journals – but Mac didn't want to give Methos a chance to back out. He thought he could almost outrun the depression that had overwhelmed the old man, if they just got moving soon enough. "How far do you want to take us?" Methos asked.

"How does Rouen sound? Or even Le Havre? There and back in a week or so?"

Methos nodded, but Mac could tell he wasn't really interested. Once they were safely in the Seine waterway, Methos took up a position on the deck and remained there unmoving for the three hours it took MacLeod to navigate past the holiday makers and cargo boats, through the locks and out of the Parisian area. Mac couldn't leave the wheel, and Methos didn't approach him. Mac couldn't tell anything from the hunched figure, sitting like a black clad gargoyle on the flat deck. They motored in peace, the sun growing ever hotter, and the shores full of tourists and walkers.

He pulled in at a marine fuel and grocery depot. Methos didn't make any move to help him tie up, or take any interest in what he planned, so Mac ignored him for the moment, arranging for the tanks to be filled, and going ashore to stock up on necessities. The shop sold beer, and after some hesitation, he bought a six pack. Loaded up, he returned to the barge. "Give me a hand, will you, Adam?" he called, and the thin figure unfurled. Mac was shocked at the expression on Methos' face – he now realised that his friend had spent three hours locked in misery. That, he decided, had to stop right now.

He prepared a simple lunch of fresh bread, paté, cheese and fruit, and insisted Methos sit down and eat. He'd bought some table wine and poured them both a glass. "I'd like a break this afternoon, Methos – fancy your hand at navigating?"

Methos shook his head. "Not my thing, Mac."

"Oh, come on, Methos – you see boys of ten driving their dad's boats. It's not hard."

"I told you, no," Methos said in a sudden flash of anger, and went to get up, his food barely touched. Mac held him down by the shoulder. "MacLeod, get your hands off me."

"No, Methos. You have to stop this. I didn't ask you along on this so you could work yourself back into a suicidal funk."

"Fine, I'll get a lift back to Paris." Mac still wouldn't release him.

"Stop it. Just stop it, Methos. You know and I know there's nothing back there for you. Stay with me and we'll fight this together." He clasped Methos' unwilling hand. "It won't last forever, and the sooner you get back to normal fitness, the better you'll feel. Why don't you try the paté? It's very good." Reluctantly Methos sat down, after a moment or two, chewed on a slice of the bread. Mac urged him to drink some wine, hoping it would stimulate his appetite. "How did you get so worn out in a month, anyway?" he asked kindly.

Methos shrugged. "Walking. Couldn't sleep – spent the night walking the streets. I'm not making it up, Mac. I really don't feel hungry. I don't feel anything much any more – just tired, sad. Angry sometimes. I've lost people before, how could I have not, but somehow ... this is worse. It feels it, that's for sure. Ahriman made sure of that."

Mac nodded. "It took me a year to stop crying over Richie, even with the monks helping me."

At last a tiny spark of interest. "It really helped? I'm glad. I felt awful sending you away like that, but I thought it was for the best."

Mac took Methos' hand again and looked straight into his eyes. "It really did, Methos. It was the perfect thing to do. If I'd known Ahriman was going to come after you, though, I'd never have left."

"Then I'm glad you didn't." Methos looked at his plate, and picked up a piece of cheese to nibble. "You and Joe didn't seem the least bit surprised when I said Alexa was alive again. I thought you'd think I'd gone nuts."

"You don't know what happened then." Mac told Methos about Sophie Baines, and the rest of it. "If I'd been thinking with my head and not my pride, I'd have realised that Ahriman would use Alexa against you. I should have realised, Methos, that day you came to see me. I am so sorry."

"Water under the bridge, Mac." Methos still continued to stare at his food.

"Methos, tell me something. I know how much you loved her...."

"Don't, Mac," Methos warned in a choked voice.

"I just want to know. I know you regret the decision – but in your place, I would have chosen Alexa."

"Maybe I should fucking well have done!" Methos shouted. He shook Mac's hand off his shoulder. "Will you please stop manhandling me?"

"I'm sorry, Methos. Just explain? This is going to be a poison between us if I don't know why you chose as you did." Methos got up and walked away from the table. "Methos...?"

"I lost my fucking temper, okay? No great moral dilemmas, MacLeod, no agonising. Kronos pissed me off and I told him to go screw himself. When he disappeared, I panicked, realising what I'd done but then Alexa didn't drop dead or disappear so I thought he was bluffing. It wasn't until ...." He heaved a great shuddering sigh. "It wasn't until ... the car hit her ... then I knew ... Mac, I would have given you up in a second for her then. I love you, but not that much."

"I understand," Mac said gently, making no move to approach the other man, who had his arms wrapped tightly around him and may as well have had _noli me tangere_ tattooed on his forehead since the vibes were so clear.

"I don't think you do," Methos said tightly. "But who the hell cares? She's dead, I'm not, you're not, Joe's not. Everything's the same as it was after she died the first time."

"Except you've had to watch her die twice, Methos. I don't know if I could stand something like that."

"I can't," Methos said in a sobbing breath, and then ran up out of the barge hold. Mac left him – even if he threw himself into the river, he couldn't hurt himself permanently, and if Mac didn't let the him explode from time to time, he would surely never heal. He finished his lunch and cleared up, before finally going up to the deck. Methos had resumed his sentinel position. Mac came and sat beside him.

"Would it have made you feel any better if it had been a difficult decision? If there had been a long moral agonising?" He wished he could put his arms around Methos, but they were in a highly public place.

"No," Methos admitted. "I just horrified myself by how easily I gave her up. I keep reliving that over and over – arguing with Kronos. That and seeing ... seeing the light in her eyes die out...." He hung his head.

"He manipulated you, Methos. Ahriman was going to kill Alexa no matter what you did – she didn't belong in this world again. All he wanted was to stop you being by my side."

"You still defeated him, Duncan. You didn't need me."

"Too many people died, Methos. We made too many mistakes – mistakes you would have stopped us making. I did need you, he was right. You know he offered Joe his legs back in exhange for him not helping me?"

Methos turned to him, horror written on his face. "Oh _fuck_ \- and he turned him _down_?"

"Yes. It was an illusion, Methos. Just like Alexa being alive again was an illusion. Real, but not real. You made the right decision for whatever reason. You have to believe that."

Methos shook his head and turned away again. "She wasn't an illusion." He stood up. "What was that about me navigating? I want to get out of here."

Mac left the subject alone for now. Methos was making more headway than he had hoped for – the ultimate survivor, as Kronos had dubbed him, would surely not be lost now Mac had gotten him to fight, even a little and however reluctantly. Instead, he guided Methos through the slightly tricky procedure of getting away from the dock, and showed him how to keep the boat on the correct side of the river and to keep the speed steady. Methos really didn't know how to drive a boat, but picked it up easily enough. Mac stood behind him as he sat in the captain's chair, his hand over Methos' to show him the instruments and the gears. He was conscious of his chest pressing against Methos' back, and he kept his arms around Methos longer than was strictly necessary. Methos didn't protest, and as he concentrated on the task, the tension in his body eased a little. Their conversation centred entirely around the traffic on the river, the different types of boats – absolutely mundane, emotionless topics which did not tax the mind or the heart.

As Methos got more confident, and as the river traffic thinned a little, Mac felt he could go it alone, so he took his hands off the instrument panel and placed them on the back of Methos' neck, starting to rub and dig into the thin shoulders. "Mmmm, nice," Methos muttered.

"Are you okay? Not tired?"

"A little. I'll be good for an hour or two. Where are you thinking of mooring for the night?"

"I thought Mericourt, if it isn't too busy. We can either go out to a riverside restaurant for dinner, or eat in."

"Sounds good to me."

MacLeod kept up the massage for a while, and then slipped his arms around Methos' chest in an undisguised hug. Methos didn't acknowledge it, but neither did he protest.

After an hour, he yawned. "That's it, Mac – I'm losing concentration. You better take over."

"That's okay, we're coming to Mericourt soon. If you want to nap, go on down. I'll take us in."

Methos shook his head as he swapped places. "I'm fine – I just don't think I'm that safe at the moment."

Impulsively, MacLeod put his arm around Methos' waist and hooked him close. "You're completely safe with me," he joked.

Methos nuzzled briefly at his neck. "Idiot," he said disgustedly, but made no move away. It was almost like they were new lovers, Mac thought, which raised an interesting question about the sleeping arrangements, which had not been discussed or even mentioned.

He kept his arm around Methos as they approached the little town, only releasing him to manoeuvre the barge against the marina. "I'll go and book us a berth, shall I?" Methos offered, and pleasantly surprised, Mac let him go do just that. He was back shortly and they moored a little way down from the dock, Methos jumping off to tie the ropes. Mac smiled to himself at the water-hating ancient moving about easily from boat to mooring.

"All set," Methos reported. "Let's get cleaned up – I presume you want to eat in town?"

"Is that all right? We don't have to," Mac temporised, not knowing if Methos was up to a formal meal.

"May as well take advantage of the facilities," Methos reasoned and then went below deck to wash up and change his jeans. Mac followed him down. "Mac, can I borrow some slacks? These jeans are a bit scruffy."

"In the third drawer." He came over to help him look.

"Oh sweats, good – hey, these are mine!" Methos looked at him, and Mac remembered how he had come to have them. For some reason, the memory of waking up in Methos' bed warmed him unreasonably. Methos was still staring at him. For the first time, Mac noticed how his dark eyes were actually a composite of a dozen or more colours, greens, golds and browns. "Duncan?" Methos said softly. Mac slid his arm around Methos and pulled him close, and moved in slowly to kiss him. Methos didn't move, seemingly frozen in shock, but when Mac's lips touched his, he opened his mouth and invited Mac to do as he wanted. The kiss went on and on – there seemed no reason to stop and only Methos pushing Mac away gently broke the embrace. "Mac?"

"Methos... I want to...." The other man's breathing was as harsh as his own, and he was sure Methos wanted him too, until Methos moved back even more.

"No, Mac ... I ... it's too soon...." He looked flustered and embarrassed.

That snapped MacLeod back to himself. He straightened up. "I'm sorry." He turned and went to the little bathroom, needing time to compose himself. _Jerk_ , he told himself sternly.

He smiled in apology when he came out. "Methos, I'm sorry," he repeated. " I just ...."

"Duncan, please don't." Methos looked miserable. "I love you touching me, and holding me, but any more ... please understand ...."

Mac went to him, and took his hands. "You set the limits, you tell me what you need."

"And leave you hanging?"

"Oh, give over, Methos." He smiled and Methos grinned back. "So cuddles in, shagging out, is that it?"

"How delicately put," Methos said dryly. "Are we presentable?"

"Yes, let's go." He turned to go out.

"Mac, aren't you taking your sword?" Methos had his hand on his duster already, where his broadsword was sheathed.

"I don't carry it any more, Methos," he said roughly and waited for the explosion which came right on cue.

"Are you insane? MacLeod, you are the biggest Immortal target on the planet – every man and his mutt wants your head! You have to carry your sword."

"I killed Richie with it, Methos. I can't carry it."

"Then carry mine, you silly bugger!" Methos said in exasperation, already drawing his weapon out for MacLeod.

Mac stopped him. "No – I'm not carrying a sword and that's it."

"So what happens if we're Challenged, Mac? I'm in no shape to protect you!"

"I'm not asking for your protection. I can look after myself."

Methos stared at him angrily. "What with, MacLeod? Are you going to waltz them into oblivion?'

"Look , I'm carrying a kenji stick...."

"And a lot of use _that_ will be against a sword!"

"Put up, old man and I'll show you."

"Don't be bloody ridiculous, Mac."

"Scared?"

"Now you're making a fool of yourself. If you don't want to.... oooph." Mac thought the only way to shortcut the argument was to attack, so he punched Methos hard in the stomach. "Bastard," Methos panted.

"Put up," Mac repeated. Methos narrowed his eyes and swung. Mac dodged it easily.

"Pathetic, Methos."

"Next, you'll be saying your sister can whup my ass," Methos said sarcastically as he swung again. Mac dodged again and landed another punch, this time over the kidneys. It was hardly an equal fight, and when Mac had finally brought Methos down onto his bum, the old man stared up at him in annoyance. "Oh well done, Mac. You've just shown you can defeat a sick man who hasn't trained in a year. I'm convinced."

"I can take on better than you, Methos," Mac declared, hauling his pissed-off friend to his feet. His face was gripped hard and shaken.

"Hear this, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod – you die because you aren't carrying your sword when you're around me, and I swear I'll kneel to your Challenger!"

Mac was shocked. "That's blackmail, Methos!"

"That's the deal."

"I'm not carrying my sword, and that's final."

"Fine!" Methos shouted angrily. "Then you better pray we don't meet any Immortal over the age of twelve!"

Mac stood with his arms folded, keeping his temper under control. "We don't have to go out at all, Methos."

Methos tore his coat off and threw it aside. It landed with a muffled clang. "Suits me – I suddenly don't have any bloody appetite. The idea of waiting for you to lose your head will do that to me, you know." He flung himself down on the sofa, staring at his shoes.

"You wait there, and I'll go buy supper." Before Methos could shout at him again, MacLeod ran up the stairs and out.

He'd had the same argument with Joe so he wasn't surprised at Methos' anger. He resigned himself to more shouting, and hoped the delicious meal he purchased from the same restaurant he'd planned that they would go to, would appease his companion. But he wasn't expecting Methos to be still sitting where he left him, eyes closed, an expression of stark misery on his face. He put the bags on the kitchenette counter and came and sat by Methos. "What's wrong?"

Dark, liquid eyes looked at him, full of pain and anguish. "Last night, you said 'not you too'. I feel the same."

"Methos, I don't plan on dying. Just because I'm not carrying a sword...." He touched Methos' cheek. "You have to trust me."

Methos put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. "I'm just so tired of worry and grief, Mac. I haven't got the energy to fight you, or make you fight for your own life. If you're going to persist with this, I need to get away from you. If the report comes to me in ten years' time, I might be strong enough then. Your death will destroy me now if I have to be here when it happens." He opened his eyes and looked wearily at the Scot. "I know I can't change your mind – so all I'm asking is that we go back to Paris. I can get a flight from there to somewhere safe and quiet. It's not very brave. I don't feel very brave."

Mac was stunned. Methos had dragged himself from the edge of the abyss because he, MacLeod, had begged him, but Methos couldn't believe Mac would do the same for him. "If I carry my sword, will you stay?"

"If you carry your sword, will you hate me?"

"No, Methos, I won't. I'm still going to do everything I can to avoid using it, but while you are with me, while you still need me, I will carry my sword. Fair enough?"

"Thank you, Duncan."

Mac patted Methos' hand. "Okay, so no more talk about going back, all right? We're on holiday, and you're going to enjoy it, whether you like it or not."

"Yessir. Is that dinner?"

Mac dished up the meal, and was pleased to see that Methos had a little more appetite than at lunch. Their argument, and the worry Mac had caused him, had clearly taken a lot out of him, and he was drooping over his plate by the time he had done. Mac took his fork out of his hand, and shook him a little by the shoulder. "Bed, Methos."

"I get the sofa, right?" Mac just kept his hand where it was, and Methos finally looked up at him. "Right?"

"Do you really want to be alone tonight?" From the look on his face, Methos clearly remembered the first time Mac asked that.

"No, I don't," he said softly. "Do you mind?"

"I'd mind more if you slept on the sofa," Mac answered honestly. "It's been a rough year for both of us. We can do the loner thing later on."

"Much later," Methos said emphatically. He used the bathroom and on emerging, stripped unselfconsciously before crawling into bed and curling up, waiting for Mac to join him. He wrapped himself around MacLeod as soon as he'd got under the covers and it seemed to Mac that Methos fell asleep almost immediately.

He had more trouble dropping off – the day had contained far less physical exertion than he was used to, and he thought he really must make time for a run before they set off in the morning. It was nice having Methos in his bed, he thought, tugging the other man a little closer. He was a comfortable bed partner, and didn't snore, as Mac had told Joe, or have any other annoying habits. Mac could understand the reluctance to go further than holding each other – to be honest, he thought, apart from the lapse that afternoon, he wasn't really thinking of Methos that way. His libido had been damped way down for a long time, along with his emotions and other appetites, and he hadn't been too sorry Amanda had kept her distance. To have compounded the injury of his sudden, prolonged disappearance with the insult of apparently not wanting her, would have been unforgivable. He yawned, and wondered where the pretty thief was. Joe said she'd lost her watcher in Zanzibar of all places, and Mac fell asleep thinking of Amanda dressed in silk scarves, and smelling of spices.

He woke sometime after midnight, feeling thirsty. He got up quietly to get a glass of water, but when he returned to the bed, the faint light through the portholes reflected off Methos' eyes. "You're awake?" Mac asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Do you need anything?"

"Could I have some of that?" Mac shared the glass of water with him. "Another dream?" Methos asked.

"No – just thirsty." He settled back in the bed. "You?"

"Yes."

"Nightmare?" As he asked, he drew Methos close, and he rested himself comfortably on Mac's chest, apparently his favourite position.

"No. Worse, in a way. Alexa, being alive – dreaming of us being together."

"Those are the worst," he said sympathetically. "I think I'd rather dream of Richie dying than thinking he was alive again and then waking up. I still get those. I still get them about Little Deer, to be honest."

"Try imagining the dreams coming true, and them dying again," Methos said dully. "Mac, Sophie Baines – did she seem real to you?"

"Completely, Methos. In every way. Even when she was looking at her own corpse, there was nothing about her that made me think she was an illusion. _She_ didn't think she was an illusion. That was Ahriman's cruelty."

"So you understand why I can't accept Alexa wasn't real?" His voice was still calm, but Mac could feel minute tremors shaking Methos' body.

"Of course. She _was_ real. She just didn't belong here any more."

A long silence, then – "I buried her in Geneva this time. It's strange to think she has two graves."

"Perhaps over time the damage Ahriman did to reality will mend. Maybe you'll go back in a hundred years and there'll just be the one grave."

Methos was silent again for a long time, as Mac stroked his back gently. "I don't visit the graves of old lovers, Mac," he said finally. "That way madness lies."

"Madness lies in a lot of ways, I've found. Methos, go back to sleep. You're worn out and I'm getting up early to go for a run."

"I hope you aren't under any impression I'll be joining you," Methos replied acidly.

Mac grinned in the dark. "God forbid. Good night, Methos."

* * *

All Mac could see of Methos as he got dressed for his run, was one bleary eye and a shock of black hair poking out of the covers. "Sword?" Methos said as Mac turned to go out.

"I never carry a sword when I run – where would I keep it?"

"The same place Amanda does in those skimpy dresses of hers, I presume," Methos answered, dragging himself out from under the blankets and propping himself up on an elbow.

"Anatomically impossible, I'm afraid," Mac said grinning, and even Methos had to smile at that. "Don't panic, old man. If I get a Challenge, I'll run like hell and get back here. But don't worry – something about sweaty shorts and runners seems to put headhunters off."

"They aren't the only ones. Come back soon?"

"Aye, and with pastries. I'll expect coffee."

"Not that horrible tea?"

"I'm on holiday, Methos. See you in an hour."

The little village was already full of joggers and English tourists taking in the sights before getting into their rented boats, so Mac felt he was safe enough, despite Methos' worries. Out of respect for his concern, he kept the run short, although he made up for it in intensity. He found a boulangerie and bought their breakfast and headed back to the barge. Methos was already up, showered and dressed, but Mac didn't miss the flicker of relief that crossed his face before he sniffed the air exaggeratedly. "I see what you mean – the ultimate Immortal repellent. Shower or coffee?"

"Coffee – I want to do some katas before we ship out." It had been a long time since he'd drunk coffee, and it made the blood rush to his head. He ate half a croissant, then moved the furniture out of his way. "You could stand to do this too, Methos."

"That's what I plan on doing. Standing, not doing."

"Ho, ho. Have you really not practiced for a year?"

Methos' sardonic smile disappeared. "I couldn't, Mac. Not with Alexa around. She didn't know about us."

Mac nodded understandingly. "Still, you need to get fit – I don't plan to be your bodyguard forever."

"No one asked you to be," Methos snapped, before walking up on deck. Mac sighed, hoping Methos would get over this latest prickly mood soon, and then began to do his breathing exercises before the warm up.

He spent an hour going through the exercises which was too long for Methos who came back down and stared at him. Mac brought the routine to an end. "Done?"

"Yes. Methos – I have to do this, you know."

"Fine. But can we get out of here now?" Something had rattled him, Mac realised, and he was taking the anger out on Mac.

"Make some more coffee, Methos. I'll be five minutes, and then we can both take her out."

After the briefest possible shower, Mac found Methos had recovered his equanimity and had poured out coffee into mugs which they could take into the wheelhouse with the remains of their breakfast. "Do you want to do this?" Mac asked.

"Do you think I can?" Methos asked, endearingly uncertain.

"Let me cast off, and then I'll guide you through. It's not hard."

They eased the big boat out of the berth and past the tourist craft. They had missed the early morning departures and consequently, apart from through traffic and cargo vessels, the river was fairly quiet. It was Monday, so the weekenders had departed the scene. Methos was enjoying himself, and Mac enjoyed watching him. He was sure Methos could drive the thing on his own, but he didn't like to leave him to go back downstairs - he didn't want to give Methos time to brood. Instead they drank their coffee companionably, and discussed the scenery, Mac keeping a friendly arm around Methos. The improvement in his friend was quite marked – still thin, but the shadows under his eyes had lifted. "You look better," Mac told his friend.

"I feel better. Not so desperate. All I needed was a hand up, I guess." Mac felt a fresh wave of guilt that he had to wait until Methos had collapsed from exhaustion before he offered that hand. "Mac, don't," Methos said.

"Don't what?"

"Beat yourself up over that day. I could have just told you about Alexa. I could have called Joe. You were angry and hurt, I saw that. If I hadn't been so ... screwed myself, I could have got past that. I was just too tired to fight you."

"And you went home to starve yourself to death," Mac said bitterly.

"No, no – I didn't, honestly. I had to look for a place to live that afternoon, and I found one the next day. Moving in wore me out, and like I told you, I just had no appetite. It usually takes me that way – some people eat when they're depressed, I'm the other type. Things got too much so I decided I needed to rest. A good long rest."

"You were unconscious when I found you," Mac said accusingly. "You were dehydrated. You don't get like that from falling asleep."

Methos shrugged. "So, I neglected myself. I didn't _care_ , Mac. Nothing mattered – nothing much does now."

"Except me staying alive."

"Well, yes. It doesn't take much for me to revive the will to live. I have my bad times too. You're looking at one. One of the worse ones, but not the absolute worst."

Mac grimaced. "Boy, I don't think I want to know what that was like."

"No," Methos said briefly. "Where are you planning to moor for lunch?"

"There are some river islands – we'll see them in an hour or so. Methos - what happened this morning?"

"When?"

"When you were so charming while I was finishing the katas."

"Oh," he said dismissively. " That was me being neurotic. People were staring at me – my fault for sitting on deck that way. I was just being a grouch."

"Well, okay, Oscar, watch this dinghy – they're not paying attention. Use the horn."

Methos obeyed and blew the whistle, which alerted the youngsters in the little boat to watch where they were headed. "Oscar?" he asked

" _Sesame Street_." At Methos uncomprehending look, Mac just shrugged. "Forget about it."

"Told you I was weak on pop culture," Methos said with a grin.

"There's weak and there's _weak_ , Methos."

* * *

The weather had turned blisteringly hot, with little breeze. The wheelhouse was like an oven by the time they moored up by one of the little river islands. Methos changed into one of Mac's pairs of cutoff shorts, and declined to wear a T-shirt. He looked like a strange pale-feathered bird, long, gangly – and wearing hiking boots. Mac hid his grin – Methos wasn't vain, but Mac wasn't sure he wanted to know how ridiculous he looked. Mac settled for a more decent pair of shorts and a T-shirt for the picnic they planned on shore. He snagged two cans of beers on his way up.

"Ah, good man, " Methos said when he saw the beer. "Perfect weather for it."

"You'll burn," Mac warned, as Methos set up the rug in the full sun, then stripped off his shoes and socks, waggling the long toes in the sunshine.

"So?"

"And it'll hurt."

"Then you can rub me down with oil," Methos said calmly.

"And you say I flirt," Mac grumbled. Methos handed him a chunk of bread smeared with paté and popped one of the beers. "Your health," he toasted.

" _Slainte_ ," Methos responded.

The heat of the day had driven the birds in to roost, and the main sounds were the cicadas, and the wake from the occasional boat moving slowly past. "This was a good idea, Mac," Methos said meditatively. "This last year - I was so desperate not to waste time, I never did this with Alexa. Even the first time with her, when she was so damn sick ... we made time to sit, look at the scenery, smell the roses. I'd ask if she wanted to do more, and she'd say, 'what is better than being with the man I love, surrounded by beauty?'" He fell silent, and stared across the water.

"What is there better?"

"'A jug of wine, a loaf of bread--and thou .... Beside me singing in the wilderness.'" Methos quoted. "I taught Khayam everything he knew," he added with a completely deadpan expression.

"Get away, Methos. Next thing you'll be saying you dictated notes to Shakespeare."

"Actually...," Mac threw an olive at him. "I did meet Khayam, honest. We both were at Malik Shah's court at the same time. I can't say we were pals, but I did say hello to him from time to time."

"Oh yeah – what were you doing at a Persian sultan's court?"

Methos leaned over conspiratorially, and Mac unconsciously mimicked his move, drawing closer. "I was his private assassin," Methos whispered, and then giggled like an idiot when Mac reared back, annoyed at having been taken in. "I was a tutor for the royal household – one of many. You are so easy, MacLeod." Methos looked too smug by half.

"And you're impossible," Mac grumbled, secretly delighted at the smile on the other man's face. "Do you want the rest of my beer?"

"Why? What's wrong with it?" Methos asked, puzzled.

"Nothing – it's just I haven't been drinking alcohol much, and I don't want to fall asleep at the wheel."

Methos rolled over onto his stomach, and pillowed his head on his arms, exposing his lily white back to the sun. "Then sleep here," he yawned. "You in a hurry to be going?"

"No."

"Then relax, MacLeod. If you want to be energetic, you can put some oil on my back."

 _That,_ Mac thought, _isn't such a bad idea_. He collected up their food and went back on board to collect a small cruet of olive oil. He showed Methos what he'd brought. "Not exactly Piz Buin."

"It'll stop me drying out, that's all that matters, and if it was good enough for the Greeks, it's good enough for me." He wriggled, and made it clear his slave was free to get on with things any time he wanted.

Mac drizzled some of the oil on Methos' long back and began to rub it in, relishing the silky fine skin under his fingers, the heavy oil making his hand glide easily up and down. He kept it up long past the point where Methos' back was covered properly, massaging it into the skin. Methos appeared to be taking his own advice and drifting off to sleep, but then he began to speak softly.

> _"Your friend is your needs answered._   
>  _He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving."_

He rolled over onto his back and looked at Mac, his eyes soft with affection.

> _"And he is your board and your fireside._   
>  _For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace."_

Mac placed his warmed, oiled hands on Methos' chest and began to move them in gentle circles. ""Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding'," he quoted, also from _The Prophet_. "'Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.'"

"You believe that?" Methos asked quietly.

"I know that I've learned a lot about myself this last couple of years - some of that's been because of you, and all of it has been because of things that have hurt. I didn't like knowing a lot of it, but I wouldn't have discovered it if everything had been a bed of roses."

"Maybe self-discovery is overrated," Methos said, closing his eyes and putting an arm over his face.

"Maybe," Mac answered noncommittally. He keep up the gentle massage, wondering whether to do Methos' legs which were beginning to pink up, as was the little bit of his face that was showing under the arm. He put a hand on one long thigh, and Methos jerked. "Sorry," he said, taking his hand away, but then stared in fascination as the raggedy shorts did absolutely nothing to conceal the burgeoning erection. What was Methos thinking about – or who?

"I don't mind ... if you want to do my legs." Mac couldn't keep his eyes off Methos' body, the shorts almost making him look more naked than if he were stripped. "Mac, you're staring."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you're a good-looking man, Methos?"

"Did anyone ever check your eyesight before you became Immortal?" Methos sat up and put his arms across his chest. "Or are you making fun of me?"

"No, if I wanted to do that, I'd have done that earlier when you were still wearing your shoes."

"Are you saying I looked funny?" Methos was attempting to look outraged.

"Like a cattle egret wearing mud boots, yeah. Ow!" he complained as Methos boinked him with an empty beer can. "That's the thanks I get?"

"No, this is," and then he leaned over and took Mac's mouth in a scorching kiss. Mac was glad he had his back to the river, and that his groin was concealed by their bodies.

He broke free. "Jesus, Methos." Their faces were about an inch apart, and he could taste the beer and paté on Methos' breath. "I want you," he said, unable to deny his feelings. The old man looked as if he were dazed. "Methos..."

"Mac...," Methos breathed, and suddenly, the barriers that had kept them from this step disappeared like soap bubbles in the hot sun. "Inside ...."

"Now," Mac answered in a hoarse voice. Methos stood up easily, and shoved his feet, sockless, into his unlaced boots, and strode over to the boat. Mac grabbed up the blanket and the oil and followed him. He barely had time to put the rug and cruet down safely, before he was grabbed and his mouth covered by fever hot lips. Eager hands pulled at his shirt, and he broke contact only long enough to pull the thing over his head. He fumbled at Methos' shorts, unbuttoning them and getting his hands inside so he could clutch the skinny butt and pull Methos closer. "Don't tell me to stop now, or so help me...."

"I'm not saying 'stop', Duncan," he whispered, and then began to suck on Mac's neck, his hands busily removing Mac's shorts. Mac heeled off his plimsolls, and shoved off his pants in a single movement, kicking them well away. He pushed Methos' shorts down too, and Methos completed the undressing. Now they were both naked, their bodies plastered hard against each other. Mac's hands slid in the oil on Methos' back, and he smoothed his way down to Methos' backside, dragging them together so that their groins rubbed against each other in the most maddening way.

"Bed," Mac growled.

"Floor," Methos corrected. "Blanket." He walked them back to where Mac had dropped the rug, picked it up and threw it down carelessly on the floor before sinking to his knees, pulling Mac down with him. Mac forced himself to push through the fog of lust, and put his hands on Methos' shoulders.

"Methos," he asked, looking into Methos' slightly crossed eyes, "is this what you want? Yesterday, you said no. I need you to tell me what you want."

Methos sat back on his heels. "I want you to fuck me...."

"No. I won't do that. I'll make love to you."

"Fine – I want you to _make love_ to me hard, and fast and in the most straightforward way you know how. I don't want you to be nice, or tender. I don't want it to be like...."

"Alexa?" Mac said softly. Methos nodded, closing his eyes. "You'll regret this later. I can't do this."

He started to rise, but Methos was on him in a split second, hanging onto him, his face very close to Mac's. "MacLeod, this isn't about me and Alexa. It's about you and me. We have unfinished business between us, have done since the day we met."

"No. Methos, you're using me to punish yourself, and to make yourself forget. Either you let me treat you like I want to, as you deserve, or we wait. Forever, if necessary." Methos sat back, his head bowed. "Methos - look at me." Mac put his hand under Methos' chin, and wasn't surprised to see the hazel eyes were liquid with emotion. "Methos – you know I love you. You know I want you. But I won't hurt you like this, I can't. I told you – I only know how to make love one way."

Methos nodded, and Mac let his chin go so that he could put his arms around the other man and bring him close. He kissed Methos' forehead gently, placed a tender kiss on each closed eyelid, and then finally to the mobile mouth.

"Mac," Methos said under his lips. A plea? He kissed him, pulling him up to his knees. "Mac, I need you...."

"You've got me, Methos. Let me make love to you? Let me make you feel good for a while."

"Yes," Methos sighed. He leaned back, pulling Mac forward, until they both lay on the blanket. Mac sprawled on top of him.

"Am I too heavy?"

"Will you get over yourself?" Methos said with some amusement.

"All right," Mac said, before that sarcastic mouth was silenced by his own tender hunger. Methos had his hands caught in Mac's short hair and was kneading his scalp. Mac shifted slightly to one side, and now he could put his hands on Methos' cock. "Wait." He got up.

"MacLeod," Methos said severely, but Mac was already back and settled over him again, tipping a little oil on his fingers from the retrieved bottle. "Good thinking, Moriarty," he said approvingly.

"No more cracks about Boy Scouts, okay?" Mac said, mock severely. "I get enough of that from Amanda. I wasn't even _in_ the Boy Scouts."

"Mac, did anyone ever tell you talk too much in bed?"

"Not recently, old man." He applied his oiled hands to the cock beneath him, and Methos 'oohed' in appreciation. Already proud, the erection grew even more, but Mac wanted to prolong the pleasure. He abandoned Methos' cock to cup his balls, and stroke the sensitive skin of the perineum. Methos had his eyes closed, a look of ecstasy on his face, his hand now digging into Mac's trapezius in a rhythm that begged for a complement down below. Mac put more oil on his fingers and swiped them carefully over Methos' entrance.

"Oh, yeah, Mac," Methos breathed, wriggling, moving into Mac's touch. Mac needed no other invitation, and pushed a finger in, to Methos' immediate and gratified reaction. "Please, Duncan?"

"As you wish, Methos." With one hand, he oiled his own erection, continuing to stroke and stretch Methos with the other, and he gave Methos a last long kiss. "Easier if you roll over," he murmured. Methos obeyed, and Mac ran his hand down Methos' flank, kissing his shoulder, before spreading the narrow buttocks. He nudged his cock in, then waited.

"Mac, please don't fiddle with me," Methos pleaded in a strained voice. "Just ... oh ...." he sighed, as Mac did what he wanted and entered him in a single stroke. "More ... more now, please?"

That was all Mac needed to hear. Still inside Methos, he urged him up onto his hands and knees and gripping the slim hips, he thrust in steady, powerful movements, to an accompaniment of 'oh yeah, and 'gods' from his partner. It was so good, Mac thought wonderingly. He wanted this as much as Methos did, needed it as much as Methos did and his cock fitted Methos' body like it was made to be there.

"Mac?" Methos said and MacLeod realised what was missing. He shifted his hand and enclosed Methos' cock so he could thrust into the warm oiled circle of his fingers and back onto Mac's own cock. It was like they were partners of many years' standing, the ease with which they slipped into the sweet rhythm. He watched in fascination how the muscles in Methos' back clenched and released with each movement, saw each sweat drop bead on the skin, and how his hair swung back and forth over the sharp cheek bones.

"Methos ... oh god, Methos ...," he murmured.

"Mac ...." Methos said, and then his cock spilled, heat against warmth. Mac kept the erection trapped against Methos' stomach, so the friction of his thrusts forced the cock through the slipperiness, back and forth. He could feel his own orgasm building, his cock filling Methos' even more. "Mac!" Methos cried, and his climax came suddenly, torn from him from Methos' command. He could feel Methos' trembling underneath him, and he lowered them both, still buried in Methos' heat, to the blanket, lying on their sides. "Oh, Mac," Methos sighed, twisting his head, so MacLeod could kiss the side of his face.

MacLeod wrapped one arm around Methos' chest and pulled him close. His hand was still covered in Methos' come so he rubbed it slowly into the skin of Methos' belly, the oil and the sweat and the semen like some rare and rich lotion. He laid his hand finally over Methos' quiescent cock. "Thank you, Duncan," Methos said.

"Thank you, Methos. It's been a while, I needed that."

Methos had his head pillowed on Mac's other arm, and when Mac shifted, causing his cock to move, Methos protested. "No, Duncan, please don't."

"You're okay?

"I'm much better than okay. Lie still."

The floor should have been uncomfortable, but they were lax and satiated and unwilling to move the short distance to the bed. The hold was much cooler than outside, and there was a soft breeze that cooled their sweaty bodies. Mac felt completely content.

From Methos' breathing, he knew his lover was sleeping, but he did not doze, being happy to lazily stroke the fine skin up and down, and trace patterns with his finger. The sun shifted eventually and they were lying in a pool of sunshine. Methos rolled over languidly and looked at his companion. "It's getting hot," he murmured.

"Not as hot as before," Mac said. "How do you feel?"

"Mmmm, like a swim would be perfect."

"We'll frighten the natives."

"I know. Shower? Or bed?"

"Shower, then I think we should move up to Les Andelys. We need water, and supplies, and some more petrol."

"Love your line in bedroom talk, MacLeod," Methos said dryly, sitting up. But then he kissed Mac gently. "You were right, I was wrong. "

"And we both got what we wanted. You sure you're okay?"

Methos stretched. "For the first time in weeks, I feel _good_ , Mac. Please don't ruin the mood by over analysing this."

"Okay. Shower together?"

Methos pulled a face – the shower was a _very_ small one – but once they were under the spray, they fit together well enough. Mac wiped off the oil he had applied so generously and Methos washed his back for him. Mac's cock stirred. "Want me to...?" Methos asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Not here, Methos – I don't have enough water in the tanks."

They dried each other slowly, stopping for a kiss every few seconds. "You're burnt," Mac said, looking at the pale skin which was still red, though fading.

"You're just hot," Methos said, then stepped out of the bathroom smartly to avoid the towel flick. He dragged back on his shorts. "Maybe I should buy some more clothes in town."

"Maybe we should go somewhere we don't need clothes?"

"Um, Bora Bora?" Methos asked innocently.

"I knew you were going to say that. Do you want me to turn around and head back to Paris?" he asked, as Methos handed him his clothes.

"Not particularly – unless you're getting bored?" Damn, old man, Mac thought, no one but Danny La Rue should use their eyelashes like that, it's criminal.

"Things are puttering along nicely, why spoil a good thing?"

 _No,_ MacLeod thought, _you're wrong, Methos. We've travelled a lifetime in three years, gone further than I thought I ever would with you._

"Mac – what's wrong?"

He shook himself. "Nothing. Just thinking. Want to drive?"

They motored up to Les Andelys, but although they booked a berth, Methos declined to follow the hordes of tourists climbing up to Chateau Galliard. "Richard was a pompous, brooding, pious ass," he declared.

"You're just too lazy to climb up," Mac teased.

"Yeah, that too. You said something about supplies?"

They bought groceries and took them back to the barge, before setting off for a longer stroll. They walked together through the town square as the sun was setting, and settled themselves in a bar, a glass of red wine before them. It had cooled to a pleasant temperature, and the few tourists who had not made the pilgrimage to the cliffs, were taking the air. A very pleasant sight they made too, Mac thought, watching a pair of very blonde, and very young girls wearing skimpy shorts and halter tops walk with unselfconscious grace past them. His mobile phone trilled – _damn_ , he cursed – he thought he'd switched it off. It was Joe, with news.

"Amanda's been located," Mac told Methos when he hung up. "She's flying back tomorrow night."

"I suppose you better be there when she gets in," Methos said resignedly.

"She can wait."

"Mac..."

"She can wait, Methos. She's angry with me for leaving without any explanations, and I understand that. But you and I are important too. Besides, she knew I was back in town. She could have come back."

"Maybe she had reasons not to, as I did." Methos was staring into the depths of his wineglass, twirling the ruby liquid around, watching the 'legs'.

"No, I don't think so. There's been a Watcher on her the whole time, and they didn't report anything out of the ordinary."

"But even so, Mac – she must want to see you if she's flying back ...."

"And I will. But not until we finish our holiday."

Methos shook his head. "It's over, Mac. Your job is over. I'm back, I'm on my feet, I'm not going to slide into oblivion. You and Amanda should talk."

"Methos...."

"No!" Methos startled Mac with the ferocity of his response. "This is what I do not want!" he said just as fiercely, although in a lowered voice. "I've known Amanda for five hundred years, Mac. Longer than you've been alive. I don't want her hurt, and I especially don't want her hurt over me. You and I will keep. We have time."

"So does she."

"But she loved you first. Mac, you've spent a year cut off from thos who love you. Now is the time to rebuild those ties, and you need Amanda, just as you need me or Joe. Go back, talk to her. I'll be waiting for you to come back to me when the time is right."

"But Methos, you're still hurting."

"And so I will be, for a long time. Mac – do you expect me to get over Alexa in a day? Two days? Even making love to you isn't enough to ease that pain. Let me go, " he said gently. "I have things I need to attend to, things I've neglected.  _People_ I've neglected – like Joe. And Amanda."

"I think I understand, Methos," Mac said softly. "All right. We'll go back in the morning. But tonight – just you and me, okay?"

"Yes, of course. Mac – I need, you need, all the people we love. Immortals can't be exclusive, we live too long, we would wear our friendships out. We've lost too many."

"Far too many."

"And Joe won't live forever. I want a few more chances to piss him off before he dies," Methos joked.

"I don't think he'll thank you for that somehow, Methos."

"Come on, MacLeod, you know he loves it really."

"If you say so. Do you want to order?"

Even though he knew Methos would not be gone forever, Mac still stored up the memories of that night as ones he would pull out and look at with pleasure over the course of a long life. They talked over the meal, and then in bed, making love slowly, gently, with the care that Mac gave to all his lovers, with all the tenderness they felt for each other.

And they talked. As the sound of Methos' rich baritone washed over him, as they spoke of their friendship and the years they had known each other, the years ahead they hoped to be together for, Mac thought of those other lines from _The Prophet_

> _Let the voice within your voice speak to the ear of his ear_   
>  _For his soul will keep the truth of your heart as the taste of the wine is remembered._

_I will remember, Methos,_ MacLeod swore to himself. _I will remember all you have taught me, all that you will teach me. I will keep the truth of your heart, until you come back to claim it from me._

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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